


Little Interludes

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bearvengers, Bed-Wetting, Blood, Chastity Device, Diapers, Domestic Fluff, Flashbacks, Forced Feminization, Gaslighting, Gen, Gore, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lying in a Relationship, Medication, Mental Instability, Nazis, Non-Sexual Age Play, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rumlow's Fragile Masculinity, Self-Hatred, Stuffed Toys, Tea Parties, Therapy, Tickling, Vomit, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 93
Words: 64,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of very short stories set in the <i>Alexander Pierce should have died slower</i> universe, as prompted by questions on my Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Somebody Loved Me

**Author's Note:**

> If you are looking for a specific interlude, I've created an index for them [here.](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/147017321736/a-tumblr-post-would-be-more-practical-i-think)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by an ask on my Tumblr about what Pierce was like before he began trying to torture the Soldier in the series.

There’s a painting on the hotel wall and the asset doesn’t understand it.

He thinks that it’s meant to be a garden, but the paint is smeary, the edges indistinct.  The asset doesn’t understand the purpose of making a painting blurry.  Though, really, he doesn’t understand the purpose of paintings at all.

Lying face down on the mattress, he turns his gaze away from the painting and toward the carpet.  Pierce is rubbing at his shoulder, just past the point where the metal melds into the skin.  His master doesn’t touch his arm much, not unless he’s pinning the asset’s wrists to the bed, but he massages the shoulder often enough.  The asset remembers that.  He’s thankful that Pierce is willing to do so, because the joint often aches with the weight of the metal.

Pierce’s hands are trembling slightly, his breathing rough.

“You’re tired,” says the asset, and Pierce laughs.  


“I don’t have your stamina.”  


“You got older.”  The asset turns his head sideways to look up at his master.  He has gotten older.  He’s older every time the asset wakes; he can remember that much.  


Pierce smiles.  “That’s what you always say.”

The asset can’t remember that.

With his free hand, Pierce brushes the hair out of the asset’s eyes.  He had a ring on that hand earlier, a gold one, but it’s sitting on the nightstand now.  His master must wear that ring often, because the skin around his finger where it was is lighter than the rest.  “You don’t get any older,” Pierce says.  “You just stay perfect.”

The asset feels a flutter in his chest, but then he looks at his master’s lightly lined face, and the feeling turns heavy and sinking.  “You have to stop.”

“Hmm?”  Pierce’s fingers still, and the asset shakes his head as best he can while it rests against the mattress.  


“No,” says the asset.  “You can’t get too old.  I don’t want a new master.”  It’s not his place to want, but how can he help it?  Pierce has a warm smile and very pretty reddish-golden hair.  


Smiling, Pierce leans back against the headboard.  He intertwines his fingers with the asset’s, which is odd because the asset’s sure he doesn’t like the cold metal.  “So I’ll have to live forever, will I?”

The asset considers this.  “Not forever.”  Even with the ice, the asset doesn’t think he himself is immortal.  “Just–”  There’s something murky in his mind, something thin as spiderweb but so very important.  “’Til the end.”

“The end of what?” Pierce asks.  


The asset doesn’t know.  At a loss, he simply voices the next thought to take form in his head.  “You’re pretty.  You might not be so pretty if you’re old.”

His master laughs at that, pulling his hand free and smacking the asset lightly with a pillow.

The asset isn’t sure why he smiles, but he does.  He isn’t sure why he grabs the pillow and gently hits his master with it either, but Pierce isn’t angry.

By the time they’re through, giggling on the floor with pillows and blankets strewn around them, the matter of his master’s age has been forgotten.  They rest slumped against each other, breathless, reddened, and perfect.


	2. As You Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by an ask on my Tumblr regarding Bucky's happiest memory of Alexander Pierce.

“As you wish!” shouts the Dread Pirate Roberts, falling, and as Princess Buttercup follows after, Bucky straightens up on the couch.

“So that’s Steve?” he asks.  For Halloween this year, Steve had said he was dressing up as Westley.  Bucky had no idea who Westley was, so now he’s sitting between Pepper and Tony, watching _The Princess Bride_.  


Tony’s going to be Inigo, and Pepper’s going to be Buttercup.  Bucky Bear, who’s sitting on Bucky’s lap, isn’t going to dress up as anything at all.

Pepper nods.  “I won’t push him down a ravine,” she adds, lightly stroking Bucky’s hand.

“But that would be incredible,” Tony says.  


Pepper just rolls her eyes.

On the television, Westley is kissing the princess.  “Death cannot stop true love,” he says.  “All it can do–”

“–is delay it for a while,” Bucky whispers, remembering.  


_It’s snowing._

_The asset’s breath is visible in the air.  He is walking backward, his boots in his hands.   His neck is craned back to track his progress, his socks soaked through.  He is walking backward because there is only one set of footprints in front of Pierce’s house, and they are leading away.  Someone must have left the house after the snow began._

_The asset cannot make a second set of footprints.  He cannot risk tracking anything back to his master.  And he cannot walk in the boots because they are wider than the tracks he is stepping in._

_It’s very cold._

_There is frost on the metal of his arm.  There is frost over the glass panes of Pierce’s door as well, snaking over the surface like icy vines.  He knows that, if he breathes on the glass of the door, his breath will fog it._

_He holds his breath as his trembling hand finds the doorknob.  He will not soil his master’s belongings._

_Although he can see his hand connect with the brass, he cannot feel it.  He fumbles for a good five seconds before the door clicks open._

_The asset removes his socks and places them inside the boots before he steps inside, to prevent any water dripping onto the floor.  His feet are reddened and feel as though they are burning._

_They’re the only part of himself that the asset can feel._

_From another room, there is a crackle of wood.  Music and voices drift into the foyer.  But Pierce is already there when the Soldier places his boots on the mat and turns around, waiting._

_“Mission report,” his master says.  
_

_“Successful,” says the asset, and he doesn’t let his lips tremble with cold and distort the words.  “Target eliminated.  Target’s belongings acquired.  No witnesses.”  
_

_Pierce smiles, and though there’s a little spark of warmth in the asset’s chest, he does not return the expression.  He has not been told to stop being a weapon, and weapons do not smile._

_“Come here, you,” Pierce says, extending his hand.  
_

_When the asset takes it, his master’s eyes dilate, gaze falling to the asset’s pale white fingers.  The asset’s stomach clenches.  His skin is so cold.  He has made Pierce uncomfortable with his touch, and he will be punished._

_But instead, his master says “You poor thing,” and he raises the asset’s hand to his mouth, blowing on his skin._

_Weapons are not permitted to smile.  But the asset can’t help the relieved slackening of his lips._

_“Come with me, sweetheart,” Pierce says, and he’s guiding the asset toward the voices.  Perhaps other HYDRA officials are gathered.  Perhaps there is to be a new mission.  The Soldier hopes the briefing will not end until his socks have dried.  
_

_But there are no people in the living room, HYDRA or otherwise.  There is a television, the sound turned low, and the people on the screen are in a very old style of clothing.  The asset believes they are actors._

_There is also a fire in the living room, bright orange and red and beautiful.  Pierce leads him to it, pushing on the asset’s shoulders so he will settle down on the rug._

_“Stay here,” Pierce instructs him.  “I know just what you need.”  
_

_The asset holds his flesh hand before the fire, because he hasn’t been told that he can’t.  He cannot risk overheating the metal of the opposite hand or damaging the machinery inside._

_He hears laughter and turns his head.  On the television, a man is laughing very hard.  Then he falls over dead._

_The asset is trying to work out what is amusing about one’s own imminent demise when something brushes against his hand._

_He looks and Pierce is standing there, offering the rabbit._

_He’s to be a child then.  In front of the fire, tired from cold and from the mission, the asset doesn’t think that will be so uncomfortable._

_“Thank you, Daddy,” he says, cradling the bunny against his combat vest.  He can’t feel it yet, not really, because he’s still shivering.  
_

_Daddy’s thought of that too, though.  He has the blanket from the little boy bed upstairs, the very soft, very warm dark blue one.  Smiling, Daddy unfolds it and drapes it over him.  Then Daddy sits down beside him, steadying himself with a hand on his shoulder as he does.  He doesn’t let go once he’s sitting all the way down; instead, Daddy stretches his arm out until it’s over both shoulders._

_On the television, a man in black is kissing a woman in red.  “Death cannot stop true love,” the man says.  “All it can do is delay it for a while.”_

_Then he isn’t watching the television anymore because Daddy is kissing his forehead.  “My perfect little snowflake,” Daddy whispers, even though it’s just the two of them.  “You’ve been so good for me.”_

_He can feel then.  He can feel Daddy’s arm on his shoulders and he can feel his toes, slowly warming under the blanket.  Most of all, he can feel the smile spreading across his face._

“Bucky?”  


Bucky blinks.

The movie is paused.  Tony and Pepper are both facing away from the screen now, staring at him.  There’s worry etched between their brows.

“I’m all right,” Bucky says.  He waves a hand, but they don’t move.  “Just spaced out for a second.  I’m fine.”  


“Where’d you go, Tin Man?” Tony asked.  “You were out of it for a good two minutes.  I was beginning to think ‘fire swamp’ was one of your trigger words.”  


“I was just thinking,” Bucky insists, though he can’t keep his hands from clenching around the bear.  “Didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night, and then my mind started to wander.  That’s all.  We can go on, really.”  He holds up the stuffed animal.  “Bucky Bear’ll keep me anchored.  Promise.”  


The worst thing isn’t the worried glances they shoot him for the rest of the film or the fact that he knows Pepper will mention this to Steve.  The worst thing is the light in his chest that ignited with the memory, and the way it’s still burning bright even as the credits roll.


	3. Bucky Bear and the Uneventful Elevator Ride

Bucky did not need to press the button for the elevator.  JARVIS knew they were coming and the doors slid open as they approached.  JARVIS was the AI that ran the tower.  Bucky Bear had evaluated him upon first arriving here.  While he was the most dangerous thing in the building except for the Hulk, the odds that JARVIS would hurt Bucky or Steve were low.  Bucky Bear was still working on a defensive plan just in case.

Bucky Bear reminded Bucky to test the elevator floor with one foot for stability before moving all the way in.  The elevator could be on the verge of a free fall, or the whole interior could be a holographic projection.  The odds of JARVIS not saying something in that circumstance were minimal, but Bucky Bear had a system.  The system made sure they would be safe.

When the floor proved sufficient, Bucky stepped inside, cradling Bucky Bear to his chest.  He was holding tight and Bucky Bear's stuffing compressed a little.  Bucky didn't have to press any buttons.  JARVIS knew where they were going.

Bucky Bear had timed the length of the ride and counted off the seconds in his head.  If they stopped too early or carried on for too long, there was an escape hatch in the ceiling.  But they stopped at exactly the right time.  The doors slid open and Bucky stepped out into Steve's foyer.

After testing the stability of the floor, of course.


	4. The Trials and Tribulations of Captain Ameribear

**Captain Ameribear, do you consider your life stressful?**

"I wouldn't say it's stressful, ma'am. It's full of responsibility, making sure the other Bearvengers are always ready for battle and ensuring that the world stays safe, and sometimes Hawkbear and Iron Bear can cause a bit of chaos, but--"

From down the hall, there was a noise that sounded very much like Iron Bear doing something he shouldn't, a lot of crashing, and then Hawkbear yelling a word that he _definitely_ shouldn't.

There was more crashing, and then a noise like Hulk Bear was angry.

Captain Ameribear sighed and grabbed his shield. "It can be very stressful." 


	5. Like the Red Panda

**Red Panda, do you enjoy hanging out with Bucky Bear?**  


The panda took a few seconds to consider before answering. The seconds stretched into a minute when a particularly interesting speck of airborne dust caught her attention and she just had to chase it. Once she was sure it was defeated, she turned her thought back to the question at hand and nodded with a loud chitter.

"He's soft and his nose is the best color and he's very good at hide and seek!" He didn't like to be pounced on too much, but other than that, Bucky Bear was a wonderful friend. 


	6. The Bear with a Passion For Fashion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by the ask: "What would happen if Bucky Bear had to wear [deely-boppers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deely_bobber) though?"

Bucky Bear seethes as Barton lowers the ridiculous headband over his ears.  It’s an item Maria Hill sent to the tower, red and fuzzy with two springy antennae poking up from the head.  At the end of each is black plastic in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head.  The bear can feel the antennae jiggling.

“There,” says Barton, straightening up and looking far too proud of his handiwork.  “What does he think, Bucky?”  


_You tell him_ , Bucky Bear instructs the nervous child, _that if he’s prepared to make me look foolish, he should know that Kodiak bears have a bite strength of 930 PSI.  And also next time the Bearvengers have a mission, I will say something unpleasant to Hawkbear_.

“He doesn’t like it,” Bucky mumbles.  


“Aw, Bucky Bear, no,” Barton says.  “But he’s so cute!”  


“He’s growling,” says Bucky.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152680774@N07/35562202030/in/dateposted-public/)


	7. Bucky Bear's Best Day Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by the ask "Could we see a happy Bucky Bear moment, please?"

Bucky Bear kicked the evil ant-alien queen (which was, in actuality, Hawkbear wearing Mickey Mouse deely boppers) straight in the chest, knocking her backward off of the ledge and into the viper pit (which was, in actuality, a pile of pillows next to Bucky’s bed).  He watched to be sure that the alien’s powers could not recover from the assault, hearing Captain Ameribear’s panting as he ran up beside him.

“Status report?” Captain Ameribear asked.  


Bucky Bear couldn’t see the alien queen anymore; she’d sunk down into the snakes as if they were quicksand.  “Their leader is neutralized, sir,” he said.  “Without her, the soldier ant-aliens should be directionless and easily rounded up.”

Captain Ameribear took out his communicator and signaled the Bear Widow, who was on the other end of the bed.  She reported that Iron Bear was with her, and together they were arresting the last of the soldier ant-aliens (in actuality, Hulk Bear and Falcon Bear).  She said that War Machine Bear had come out of his ant-alien bite-induced coma with no signs of lasting damage.

“We couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t taken out the Queen, Captain,” Bear Widow said.  


“You can thank Bucky Bear for that,” Captain Ameribear said.  “He saved us all.”  


Bucky Bear’s fur felt as red as his nose.  He pretended to be focused on the ant-alien venom slowly eating away at his coat cuff, but then Captain Ameribear hugged him very tightly, so tight Bucky Bear couldn’t even hug back.

“You saved the world, Bucky Bear,” Captain Ameribear said.  “You’re an amazing soldier and a perfect friend.  I’m so proud of you.”  


Bucky Bear smiled.


	8. Captain Ameribear and Friends

**Captain Ameribear, what is your opinion on the other Bearvengers? (And Red Panda and Brock Bear?)**

Captain Ameribear cleared his throat and began reading from his prepared bulleted list:

“Bucky Bear:  He’s my best friend!  He’s been through some hard times, but nobody’s tougher than my pal Bucky!  Now that he’s back, we’re going to save the world and have all kinds of fun together and I’m never letting him go again.  And he’s one of the best soldiers I’ve ever seen.  


“Bear Widow: People can be real scared of her because she’s very strong and very stealthy and very Russian.  I don’t understand why people are so scared of Russians.  In my day, the Russians were our allies!  She’s a very nice, trustworthy bear, even if she’s very nosey about my love life sometimes.  


“Falcon Bear: He has these really swell wings!  There aren’t a lot of bears with wings, you know, but even if there were, I don’t think they’d fly half as well as he does!  He’s a very friendly bear who always wants to help out, whether it’s on a mission or it’s after one and he wants to talk about feelings.  Falcon Bear likes to talk about feelings a lot.  Sometimes there isn’t always time because we’re busy saving the world, though.  


“Hawkbear: His jokes are a little strange sometimes–must be future humor–and he spills coffee a lot.  But he’s the best bear I’ve ever seen with a bow and arrows!  Plus, he makes Bear Widow happy, and that makes him a great ally!  


“Iron Bear:  Iron Bear is a very good inventor!  He makes a lot of flashy technology, and most of it is very helpful.  Iron Bear likes flashy things.  He likes them a whole lot.  Sometimes he can be a bit of a show off.  And he can be loud.  And his nicknames aren’t always so good.  And sometimes he drinks too much mead.  But!  He’s a very nice bear underneath it all, and we can always count on him.  


“War Machine Bear: Once, he saved the President!  He’s very good at strategy and he’s even better at handling Iron Bear when Iron Bear’s been hitting the honey pot a little hard.  He’s one of the best tactical bears on the team.  


“Hulk Bear: He’s great at smashing things!  He’s also very smart and very good at controlling his emotions.  He’s a very nice bear and he makes good tea and he’s a good doctor!  Everybody likes him.  And he’s really, really great at smashing things.  


“Thor Bear:  He is also good at smashing things, except he usually uses a hammer to do it!  He’s a prince and sometimes he has to travel far away to do prince things, but whenever we need him, he helps out.  He laughs a lot and he’s very interested in Earth bear things.  It’s nice to have someone else around who’s also learning about this world!

“Red Panda: Did you know pandas aren’t actually bears?  Red Panda’s still a great friend, though.  She’s very energetic and she can always get Bucky Bear to smile.  I don’t speak Panda, but we get along very well.  And Bear Widow can translate.  


“Brock Bear:  We’ve worked together in the past, fighting pirates and saving hostages!  He’s a very clever bear and he’s very good at spy missions!  Once, he saved me from a pirate.  He’s a very good team leader when we need to split up on missions.  He uses a lot of Axe, though.”  



	9. Teddy Bears' Tea Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by the ask "Is Brock Bear's masculinity as fragile as Rumlow's?"

“Uh, kid?”  The Commander stood in the doorway, watching as Bucky unloaded all the bear supplies from his backpack.  “What are you doing?”  


“We’re having a tea party,” Bucky explained.  It was a real miniature tea set that Bruce gave him, all white china with blue flowers and vines.  Captain Ameribear, Bucky Bear, and Brock Bear were sitting on top of the Commander’s table, which was actually a TV tray.  It was small enough that all the bears’ feet and paws were touching, but they didn’t mind.  


The Commander shifted his weight.  Maybe he was tired from standing up for too long.  Sometimes the injuries made him feel weak.  Bucky scooted out of the way so the couch would be more open.  “Wouldn’t they rather save the world or something?”

“They did that this morning.”  There had been an invasion of genetically modified sea slugs.  It was all very dramatic.  “This is a celebratory tea.”  


“I don’t think Brock Bear likes tea,” said the Commander, tugging a little on the neckline of his shirt.

“He does.”  Bruce made honey-lemon tea once and Brock Bear had asked for seconds.  The bear hadn’t wanted to try any tea at first, but Captain Ameribear convinced him it was okay.  


The Commander sighed.  “I just think–”

“There’s a cup for you too,” Bucky said, holding it out.  


But the Commander didn’t come any closer.  His lips twitched like there was something he wasn’t saying.

“Don’t you want to have a tea party?” Bucky asked.  Frowning, he looked through the backpack.  Maybe he brought something else fun.  “We don’t have to if you don’t wanna.”

“No, kid, it’s fine.”  With another sigh, the Commander walked over and sat down.


	10. Bucky Bear on the Couch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by the ask "Bucky Bear, what do you do in Bucky's therapy sessions if you don't talk?"

Bucky is squeezing the bear so much, it flattens all the stuffing in his stomach.  Bucky Bear doesn’t mind.  He likes being squeezed.  And he likes being helpful.

“Are you still having bad dreams?” the lady doctor asks.  


Bucky Bear is listening very carefully.  He’s always listening because many of the questions are dangerous.  This one isn’t, though.  The doctors already know about the nightmares.

Bucky nods.

“And you said you remember most of the dreams once you wake up, is that right?”  The lady doctor is smiling.  It’s a nice smile.  She’s usually smiling and her words are almost always soft.  


Bucky Bear is suspicious of her.

“Uh-huh.”  And that’s nothing Bucky hasn’t said before either.  


“Do you know what you dream about the most?” the lady doctor asks.  “Is it the things that happened to the Soldier?  Or is it Pierce?  Or something else?”  


Bucky Bear bristles.  Bucky’s never given quantities of nightmares before.  He’s never said which fear wakes him up the most, crying and soiled, hands shaking around Bucky Bear until he’s sure he isn’t back in the chair.  It’s dangerous to let people know what scares him.  Then they’ll know the most effective way to keep him in line.

Bucky senses the bear’s hesitation, because he doesn’t speak.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.  But if we know what you’re most scared of, we might be able to help you be less afraid,” she coaxes.  


And of course Bucky mumbles “Stuff with the Soldier,” because Bucky is trusting and young and forgets important things about survival.  He’s still hugging so tight, but Bucky Bear’s stuffing feels cold.


	11. A Birthday for Brock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by this ask: "But Daddy we can't let the Commander spend Christmas/Thanksgiving/his birthday alone!"

“Bucky,” Daddy says firmly.  “You know how I feel about you going to Rumlow’s apartment.”  


“But Daddy, he can’t spend his birthday alone!”  


In Bucky’s arms, Bucky Bear suggests that Bucky try pouting.  He doesn’t; being whiny and manipulative won’t help get his way.  He does stare all wide-eyed, though.  That’s not really misbehaving.

“Do you remember what we talked about?” Daddy asks.  “About Rumlow making his own decisions and how actions have consequences?”  


“But _Daddy_ , it’s his birthday.”  He thinks of the Commander, lying on his couch all alone, half-asleep from the pain medicine he needs because of all his burns.  He thinks of the Commander missing Agent Rollins and having no one to talk to.  He thinks of a birthday with no presents or cake or ice cream, spent all alone in a dark, cramped, cold space or lying down in freezing mud, waiting to take a shot, or–

“We could invite him here,” Bucky pleads.  “Or you could come with me.  Please?”

 Daddy sighs.  “Buck, I don’t _want_ to see Rumlow.  I’m still very mad about the things he did and the lies he told me.”  


Bucky is frowning now, which isn’t technically bad because that’s different from pouting.  Daddy and the Commander used to work together all the time.  They’d liked each other then.  Why can’t they just be friends again now?  “Natasha could go with me if you don’t wanna.  She likes Rumlow.  She thinks he’s funny.”  


Well, she’d said his life was a “wonderfully dark comedy,” but that probably means the same thing.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Daddy says.  


“ _But Daddy_ , I was gonna get him this really soft stuffed pig I saw at the toy store so Brock Bear could have a friend and we were gonna sing and play games and there was going to be a cake with lots of candles and bubble gum sprinkles and all kinds of stuff that would really cheer him up!”  


“Did you say bubble gum sprinkles?”  


Bucky nods.  He isn’t sure what food the Commander likes besides pancakes, but pancakes aren’t the same as birthday cake.  He remembers the Commander chewing gum on missions, though.  “Pepper helped me find them they’re flat and round and bright pink and she says if we cover the whole cake in ‘em after it’s frosted then it’ll be really, really pretty and I think the Commander should get to have pretty stuff on his birthday, please Daddy _please_?”

Daddy smiles.  Bucky doesn’t think he’s smiling at anything he said; his eyes have that far off, planning look.  It’s an expression Daddy’s had before when Bruce or Clint suggests a way to prank Tony.  “Maybe,” Daddy says, “we can do something for the Commander’s birthday.”

Bucky hugs him tight.


	12. A Little Too Big

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by this ask on Tumblr: "Bucky making friends with an actual child or maybe meeting people who voluntarily become 'little'. That would be interesting."

Bucky’s hiding under the table.

 _This was a bad idea,_ he thinks, staring down at the floor.  It’s mostly gray, but every few tiles, there’s a block of color: red, blue, or green.  In his arms, Bucky Bear doesn’t argue.

He’d found this group online two weeks ago.  “Toy Box,” the website called it, “a safe space for Manhattan littles and caregivers.”  They meet here once a month.  Non-members and the curious are welcome, but anyone “interrupting the atmosphere or disturbing the community” will be asked to leave.

Bucky wonders if he’s disturbing the atmosphere.  Nobody else is hiding under a table.  They’re running around having fun, or stacking blocks, or listening to stories.  Some of the kids are really loud, and some are quiet.  But he’s the only one hiding.

He’s not sure anymore what he even wanted from coming here.  To talk?  To work out how he feels about this part of him that’s probably never going away?  To tell someone besides his doctors about how he’s sure Daddy doesn’t really like to play with him?

There are some daddies and mommies here.  There are also staff members wearing ID badges.  Bucky guesses they’re like babysitters.  They all look happy to be here.  They won’t want to talk about problems.

Maybe he just wanted to play for once knowing that the people joining in weren’t doing it out of obligation.  But he doesn’t feel right, playing with these strangers.  He’s not really like them.  If they knew who he was, how he got this way, they probably wouldn’t want him around.  They’d say he’s giving the community a bad name.

Bucky sniffs.  The air smells like cleaner and graham crackers.  Bucky Bear isn’t having fun and suggests they go home.

“Hi there,” someone says softly.  


There’s a lady–a girl–crouched down beside the table.  Her smile is kind of like Tasha’s but that’s the only similarity: she’s shorter and wider and Bucky thinks she’s Latina.  The girl has her hair in braids and she’s wearing a Rapunzel sweatshirt.  Bucky’s never seen _Tangled_.  Daddy says it’s not appropriate.

“Are you alone?” the girl asks.  


Bucky shakes his head, because Bucky Bear’s with him.  He thought of asking Tasha, but he knows how careful she is about letting people know her secrets.  She wouldn’t want a bunch of strangers knowing something so private.

And he understands that.  He’s got his left hand covered and there’s a knitted hat over his long hair.  He doesn’t want anyone to see him as a criminal or a victim or any of the other stuff they call him on the news.

The girl cranes her neck and smiles at the bear.  “Ooh!” she says.  “He’s cute.  What’s his name?”

“Bucky Bear,” he mouths, because his voice isn’t really working.  


“I like his nose,” says the girl.  “What’s your name?”  


“James,” he whispers.  That’s not really a lie.  It’s written on his birth certificate and everything.  It’s also on the special ID Tony made for Bucky, for times he wants to go out and enjoy himself without everyone getting excited at his name.  That’s the ID Bucky used to come in here.  It says “James Rogers” on it, but Tony says that’s not lying because Daddy is Bucky’s legal guardian now.  


“I’m Crystal,” she says, and he wonders if that’s her real name.  He wonders what it’s like not to be embarrassed and scared all the time.  “Hey, ever played Godzilla?”  


Bucky shakes his head.

“You stack up a buncha blocks like buildings,” she explains.  Crystal sits back on the floor, twisting up her shoelaces between her fingers.  “And then you get something to be Godzilla–it could be you or your bear or anything–and you knock ‘em all down!”  


Bucky stares.  Knocking things down does sound fun right now, more fun than it ever has, but it sounds like it would make a mess, too.  He doesn’t think the grown-ups would be happy.

“It’s allowed,” Crystal says.  “You just gotta clean the blocks up when you’re done.  You wanna play?”  


He looks at the corner with the blocks.  It looks really far away and not under any tables.  “Uh-uh.”

“I can bring the blocks here,” Crystal says.  


Bucky Bear doesn’t think it’s safe.  Bucky Bear doesn’t trust new people.

“…Kay,” Bucky whispers.  


It turns out Bucky Bear’s really good at knocking down blocks.  Crystal cheers every time he does it, and Bucky can tell it makes the bear happy.

By the time the meeting is over, Crystal scrawls an email address in crayon on some construction paper and shoves it at Bucky–”in case you ever need it”–and Bucky’s happy too, all the way through the walk home.


	13. Out of Parameters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by this ask on my Tumblr: "I'd really like to see a fic with Bucky acting like the soldier again the way he did in the Halloween story!"

Princess Ariel is bleeding.

He’s supposed to be coloring a picture of the mermaid admiring all the human objects she’s collected.  But instead her eyes are torn out and there’s a large gash in her stomach.

He’s supposed to be five.

He’s  _not_  supposed to be the asset.

Instinctively, his hands drop below the level of the table, grasping for the bear, but it’s not on his lap.  The Bucky Bear is in the laundry room, drying out on towels after being hand-washed in the sink.

The asset’s heart rate is increasing, fingers clutching at the air.  He struggles to control his reaction before it becomes visible, though by now, JARVIS has likely already—

JARVIS.  He remembers JARVIS from the night with the blanket fort, the sudden voice overhead that he’d mistaken for HYDRA’s, the gleam of the knife in his hand as he’d pressed it against the throat of—

 _Captain Rogers is not here_.

Struggling to keep his respiratory rate from audibly speeding up, the asset holds onto that thought. Captain Rogers is not here.  The asset is in the lab.  Captain Rogers is not in the lab.  He is not even in the tower; he’d said he was speaking today at some charity function.  The asset cannot hurt him.

He must rectify this before Captain Rogers returns.  He must sequester himself until he can be good again, until he can be sure he won’t hurt anyone.

But he cannot leave now without drawing the attention of Dr. Banner.

The doctor is sitting across the table from the asset. Before him is a page torn out from the coloring book, depicting Princess Snow White and her animal friends cleaning the dwarves’ cottage.  Dr. Banner is conducting some sort of experiment which involves periods of recording data and then long stretches of waiting.  During this stretch, he began coloring with the child.

After Captain Rogers and JARVIS, Dr. Banner is the most dangerous individual in the tower.  When threatened, he can transform into an unstoppable creature.  And why wouldn’t he feel threatened by the asset?

He isn’t meant to _be_ the asset.  No one in the tower likes the asset.  No one has ever told him to behave as a weapon or ordered him to do anything requiring the asset’s skills.  They like him as a child.  As a person. But if they recognize the asset, they will send him away.  He’s too dangerous to remain in the tower; he will locked up in one of the hospitals where the courts intended to commit Bucky Barnes.

Or he’ll be locked up back in the cold.

The asset takes the coloring book and places it on his lap, hiding it below the edge of the table. Slowly, careful not to make a sound, he rips out the bad drawing and folds it four times before slipping it into his pocket.  Once he is safe in his own floor of the tower, he will tear the drawing into small pieces and flush the pieces down the toilet.  He will leave no trace.

Dr. Banner has not spoken. Perhaps he has not noticed the asset’s duress.  But he is observant.  The asset cannot risk leaving the room immediately after atypical behavior.

He places the coloring book back onto the table.  The next page after the one he removed portrays the mermaid with a statue of her prince.  He picks up the gray crayon and begins to color.

“Can you hand me the black?” Dr. Banner asks.

Wordless, he passes it over.

“Last picture didn’t turn out like you wanted?”

The asset shrugs. Shrugging is an appropriate response for a child, particularly an unhappy one.

“I bet this one will be great,” the doctor says.

He is careful to fill every inch of the page with color, careful to make all of the crayon markings go in the same direction.  He tries to see the page as a child would: red hair, purple seashells, gray rock. But his thoughts drift to blood pulsing out of a headshot, blackened eyes, metal fingers crushing a windpipe. The asset will not tremble, will not tear the page in frustration.  He isn’t meant to be here; he’s not even sure how he _got_ here.  He was coloring Princess Ariel’s stomach and then he started coloring entrails pouring out instead, thinking of a mission with a red-haired target instead of worrying about the Bucky Bear drying in the laundry room.

He misses the bear.

The asset does not realize his eyes are hot and wet until he feels Dr. Banner’s hand on his shoulder. There are tears on the coloring book, warping the page.

“What’s the matter?” Dr. Banner looks so concerned. The asset is meant to be honest with doctors.  But he often holds his tongue, afraid of their chair.  “You don’t have to color if you don’t want to, Bucky.”

“Don’t feel right,” the asset mutters, and his voice is thick enough that maybe Dr. Banner won’t notice the tone is wrong.

The doctor lays a hand across the asset’s forehead even though he must know that Barnes cannot fall ill.  “Do you want something to drink?” he asks.  “Or do you need to lie down?”

Lie down.  On the Pembry mission, the house in the snow, he’d slept as the child and woke as the asset.  Sleep may do the reverse now.  Or perhaps he will wake as Barnes.  That’s within parameters.  He nods, stands.

“I’ll go with you,” Dr. Banner says, and the asset’s stomach clenches.  He needs to be alone.  He cannot be discovered.

“I don’t wanna ruin your experiment,” he mumbles, staring at the floor.

“You won’t.  I won’t need to check on it for at least another hour, Bucky, don’t worry.”

From the firmness of Banner’s voice, the asset knows there’s no escaping it.  The more time he spends arguing is more time to be noticed.  “’Kay.”

Dr. Banner leads him to the elevator.  He asks if the asset needs any help getting into his pajamas, but the asset changes in the bathroom alone, and the doctor does not question it.  He tears up the coloring page and flushes the pieces. When he returns to the room proper, Dr. Banner does not seem to suspect.

“Here,” he says after pulling the blankets over the asset, handing him the Ameribear.  “I’ll make sure someone brings Bucky Bear to you as soon as he’s dry, okay?”

“Can I have the green bear too, please?” the asset asks, forcing the lisp on the last syllable.

Dr. Banner retrieves it. “Anything else?”

 _No_ , the asset thinks.  He needs to be alone, unconscious.  He needs to be functioning properly.  But his mind is a mess of panic and adrenaline, and he cannot force himself to relax.  To sleep. “Could you read to me?”

The doctor reads to him about a duckling that is really a swan.  The asset’s eyes are half-closed by the time it is over, and when Dr. Banner strokes his hair before turning off the light, he shifts into the touch.  It’s an instinctive reaction and before sleep overtakes the asset, he is pleased with his ability to mimic a child so well.


	14. Playtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by this ask on my Tumblr: "Does Bucky ever play creepy games with his bears like he draws creepy pictures?"

“Can you tell me a story?” Sam asks.  


Bucky shakes his head.  He only knows one story.  It’s about a little boy who lost his arm, and he gets the feeling that these grown-ups won’t like it.  “Dunno any good stories,” he mumbles.

He’s sitting in his closet, which is very big.  It’s two days since Daddy gave Bucky the bear.  Two days since Bucky messed everything up.  He hasn’t seen Daddy at all since then.

But he’s seen a lot of Sam.  Sam has a lot of questions, which is worrying even though they’re asked nice and soft and slow.  A lot of times he feels like he gives the wrong answers, but Sam hasn’t got mad.  Not yet.

Bucky feels like that story might make him mad.

“You could make one up,” Sam suggests.  “Maybe about your little bear?”  


He stares at the bear.  He hadn’t thought much of the toy when Daddy gave it to him; he’d been too worried about paying Daddy back for his gift.  But he thinks he likes the bear.  The bear is nice to hold, warm, and sensible.  “Can’t tell a story with just one person.”

Then he tenses—talking back isn’t okay—but Sam just glances around the closet and nudges a boot toward him.  It was Bucky’s boot when he was the asset.  It’s scuffed from his time on the run and there’s dried mud on it.  “You could pretend this is a toy.  Maybe another bear?”

“It’s a cow,” says Bucky, because it’s leather.  


“That works too.”  


He glances back and forth between the cow and the bear.

“What can you tell me about them?” Sam asks.  


“They’re friends.”  


“That’s good.”  


Bucky pauses, thinking.  Stories are supposed to be happy.  Friends do happy things together.  “They eat cookies and color and watch movies.  And sit in front of fires when it’s cold.”

“Sounds like fun.”  Sam had been kneeling down by the closet door but he shifts now, sitting back.  Bucky isn’t sure why he didn’t just come into the closet; there’s enough space.  “What are they doing right now?”  


He shrugs.  Pushes the bear until he’s leaning up against the boot.  “Bucky Bear’s giving him a hug for being a nice friend.”  He stares down at them, imagining the hug, and suddenly his hand is shooting out and knocking Bucky Bear over.

“Bucky?”  


“He made the cow sad,” Bucky says.  He pictures a crying cow and he’s hot with anger, shaky.  He feels like he could throw up.  “He’s been bad.”  


“What did he do wrong?”  


“Everything.”  Bucky reaches out again, winding his fingers in the lacing of the boot.  “He hurts people and he doesn’t know how to be a friend right and he misbehaves and he makes the cow cry and he messes everything up.”  He lifts the boot, smacking it down on the bear with every word. “He—messes—everything—up!”  


He drops the boot.  Bucky Bear lies still on the carpet.  He feels like crying, but he won’t.

For a while, Sam is quiet.  When he finally speaks, his voice is very soft.  “Okay.  Do you think there’s a way we could fix that?”

Bucky shakes his head.  “No.  He’s a bad bear and he’ll always be a bad bear.”

The end.


	15. The Man She Thought She Knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by this ask on my Tumblr: "Have you written anything about Pierce's daughter discovering Bucky's room in Pierce's house?"

The door was locked.

It took her three days to find the key, concealed beneath a false bottom in a desk drawer in her father’s study.

It took her another two days to open the door.

After the initial report, the information leak, she’d stopped watching the news, tasking her secretary with passing along summaries of the vital information to her.  She could imagine what they were saying about her father, the way they would drag her own name, and her mother’s, through the mud with his.  She didn’t have the heart to watch it.

And she didn’t have the stomach to see what the man she’d thought she knew deemed worthy of keeping under lock and key.

But the curiosity and the horror gnawed at her mind like a parasite eating through her grey matter and suddenly it was three in the morning and she was shoving the key into the lock.  She braced herself for whatever lay inside.  Weapons, barrels of acid dissolving bodies, backup plans for world domination—

She did not expect a bedroom, and certainly not one for a child.

The walls were painted in primary colors: two blue, one yellow, and one red.  A small green rug lay in one corner, with a table and two chairs sitting upon it.  There were coloring books and crayons on the table.

There was a dresser in the opposite corner, with several of her childhood stuffed animals on it.  The rest of her old toys—including her favorite, Flopsy, the rabbit she’d named after one of her books—sat on the bed.  It was a full size bed with a thick green comforter and a soft-looking blue blanket folded up at the foot.

The room had no bookshelf.  Whatever her father had done with her old picture books, they weren’t here.

What _was_ this?  A room for visits from his niece?  Then why lock it away?  He couldn’t have hidden HYDRA secrets in a room where a child slept.  He _couldn’t_.

She pulled out the dresser drawers, rooting through clothes in search of anything hidden below.  It wasn’t until she came up empty-handed that she bothered to look at the clothing she’d thrown out.

Pajamas.  They looked like children’s pajamas, little boys’, decorated with dinosaurs and race cars and little monkeys.  But the size: she doubted they would fit her father, but there was no question these were designed for an adult.

She shoved the clothes back into the dresser and locked the room off again.  Whatever sexual fantasies her father had taken up after her mother’s passing, she didn’t want to know about it.  She could only imagine the field day the press would have.   _Secret HYDRA Leader Also a Pervert_.  Pervert.  Who was she kidding?  Even if they were meant for an adult, the world would still take him for a sick pedophile.

When she sold off her father’s belongings to pay for the damages owed by his estate, she kept the room sealed off.  There was nothing of value there.  Nothing she wanted to see a second time.

Then: the trial.

Then: James Buchanan Barnes.

Then:  _And he always said he loved me, and I was such a good boy, his perfect little snowflake_.

She opened the door that night, head swimming with alcohol.  Her rabbit sat on the bed just as before, staring back at her with black plastic eyes.  She thought of her father’s arms as he hugged her, his words in her ear: _my pretty little princess_.

After she vomited, she couldn’t bring herself to wipe up the mess on the floor.  Maybe if she sat there crying long enough, her tears could wash it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for clarity: The Pierce I write doesn't have any sexual interest in his daughter. Her horror and repulsion here is more at the realization of the things her father did, and the possibility that he _might_ have been.


	16. A Special and Important Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by an ask on my Tumblr for more Tony and Bucky interactions.

Bucky rolls on the floor, giggling and squirming.  Dum-E pokes at his ribs,  trying to get the wrench Bucky’s holding against his chest, arms crossed to hide it.  It was Bucky Bear’s idea; they were bored in the lab and Bucky Bear wondered how fast Dum-E could chase them if they took the tool he was using.

 _Faster than anticipated_ is Bucky Bear’s conclusion.  Bucky’s too busy being tickled to draw any conclusions.  He doesn’t always like being tickled, but with Dum-E it’s okay.  Claws don’t feel anything like hands and they don’t worry Bucky at all.

“Hey, kiddo.”  


Bucky wriggles onto his back, lifting his head.  Tony’s been working on something with his computer screens, but now he’s standing up.  “Uh-huh?”

Dum-E chooses that moment to make his move, pushing on Bucky’s tummy.  Bucky squeals, arms dropping down to shield himself, and the robot steals the wrench back.  “That’s cheating!”

“Having fun?” Tony asks.  


Bucky sits up as Dum-E’s nodding.  “Are we too loud?”

“Not at all.  But if you can take a break from robot keep-away, I could use some help with an experiment.  Wanna do science?”  


Bucky almost says yes immediately, but some of Tony’s experiments don’t always turn out so good.  “This isn’t gonna be like the time you made me put Mentos in the soda, is it?”  Bruce hadn’t been happy when he came into the lab after that.  Not at all.

“Hey, I don’t even _have_ Mentos in here anymore.”  Tony runs a hand through his hair.  “Not where anyone else could discover them, anyway.”  


“Is it gonna be like the time I got stuck to the magnet?” Bucky asks.  Both Daddy and Pepper hadn’t been happy about that.  


“Of course not.  I just want to take a close look at Bucky Bear, okay?  It’ll lead to something really cool, I promise.”  


Bucky glances at Bucky Bear.  Last time Tony had wanted to do something really cool with Bucky Bear, it had involved the bear flying around in the air.  Which _had_ been really cool, but then Tony had tested it outside, and Bucky Bear hadn’t liked being way up in the sky very much at all.  “It’s not something scary?”

“Cross my heart,” Tony says, and he does.  “Here—you know about 3D printers, right?”  


“They use plastic instead of ink and make shapes instead of putting stuff on paper,” Bucky says.  “Your company uses ‘em to help make prosthetics and stuff.”  


“Right.”  Tony settles down beside him, ruffling Bucky Bear’s fur.  “Well, some other people figured out a way to use felt to print soft things, like teddy bears.  But those bears don’t have a lot of detail, and they’re all one material.  Now, because I’m a genius, I’m pretty sure I just figured out a way to print all kinds of soft things.  Like a bear’s fur, and then his stuffing, and then his nose.  So what I want to do is test it by scanning Bucky Bear and seeing if I can replicate him, okay?”  


 _Not okay_ , Bucky Bear says at once.

Bucky hugs the bear tight.  “He doesn’t want another Bucky Bear.  He likes being special.”

“Oh,” says Tony.  “That’s okay.”  


But Bucky doesn’t want to mess up the experiment either.  “I could get Iron Bear?” he offers.  “Iron Bear would like it.”  Iron Bear would definitely be of the opinion that the world needs more Iron Bears.  But maybe not all in one room.  Either they’d get into a contest about who was the smartest, or all the other bears would shove them under the bed.

Tony smiles, sticking out his hand.  “Sounds good.  Want to go get him?”

Bucky takes his hand and together they head to the elevator.  Dum-E manages to poke him one last time before the doors shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3D printed teddy bears are [a real thing.](http://www.disneyresearch.com/project/printed-teddy-bears/)


	17. Story Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by this ask on Tumblr: "Can Steve tell a story from the POV of Captain Ameribear? Was Ameribear always big and brave? When did Ameribear know he was Bucky Bear's friend?"

Super soldiers don’t really get _sick_.

But they do get awful stomachaches sometimes when they’re not used to solid food and then go and eat something with a bunch of dairy in it by mistake.  Which is why Bucky’s curled up in Steve’s bed, moaning and whining and doing everything HYDRA would beat him senseless for.  It’s probably rude, but Bucky spent a lot of hours at sick little Steve’s bedside.  Even if he can’t remember all that time, he figures he’s still owed something.

“Here,” Steve soothes, pressing a cool washcloth to Bucky’s forehead even though he’s nowhere near feverish.  “Anything else?  I can rub your back.”  


“Tell me a story.”  Bucky flushes a little because adults don’t ask for stories, but fuck it.  He already does a lot of things adults don’t do.  And he needs a damn distraction from the churning in his gut.  


“Uh,” says Steve, glancing around.  “Your books are all upstairs.”  


“Make something up then,” Bucky mumbles.   _Tell me about the past_ , he wants to say, but he knows it burns Steve that there’s so much Bucky still can’t remember.  


“Sure,” Steve says, but his eyes cast around again.  He stands, and Bucky slides his eyes shut, hearing him shuffle around the room.  Then there’s the slight shift of the mattress, and Bucky looks.  


Steve’s sitting down again.  In front of him are the Bucky Bear and the Captain Ameribear.  They’d been playing with them before the disastrous attempt at lunch.  “Want to hear about how the bears met?”

He kind of wants to cling to the bears and pass out.  But Bucky just nods, sending the cool washcloth flopping into his eyes.  He pushes it back.

“See, Captain Ameribear wasn’t always a big, tough soldier bear,” Steve begins.  “He used to be an artist bear, and other bears would always be stealing his money for pencils or honey, or just hitting him for fun.  And he always fought back, but sometimes he felt really weak and was pretty easy to punch.  He lived in this drafty, damp basement, see, so his stuffing was always getting mildew.”  Steve lays the bear flat on his back, as though they’re attending a little bear funeral.  


“This is so saccharine I’m gonna puke,” Bucky warns.  


“But Captain Ameribear had a best friend named Bucky Bear,” Steve adds, and Bucky Bear takes Ameribear’s paw, pulling him up.  “One day, a really big bear was trying to take all of Ameribear’s honey when he’d just been to the beehive, and Bucky Bear made the bad bear stop.  And ever since that day, they couldn’t be separated, and Bucky Bear was always looking out for his little friend.”  


“Bucky Bear’s smaller,” Bucky says.  And he is, by two whole inches.  


“He wasn’t always.  Captain Ameribear used to be koala-sized.  But all that changed with the Great Honeycomb War.”  


“Are you serious with these analogies?”  


“All the bears in the world were fighting over honey supplies because of the diminishing bee populations,” Steve continues, slightly louder.  “Bucky Bear had to go fight, but they wouldn’t let Ameribear go because his stuffing was too loosely packed.”  He marches the Bucky Bear away from his companion.  


“But then there was a bear with all his fur melted off to reveal his evil red lining?” Bucky asks, shaking his head.  This time, his whole face is covered in damp washcloth.  


“Bucky Bear told Ameribear not to do anything stupid.  But Ameribear liked doing stupid things, so he volunteered for a special experiment.  Some scientist bears stretched out his fur to be bigger and wider, and filled him with extra-special super stuffing.”  


“I hope JARVIS is recording this,” Bucky mutters.  Tony would bust a gut from laughter.  


“Now Captain Ameribear thought he’d get the chance to be brave and fight with the other bears.  But instead, the bear senators just wanted him to look cute and sell toys.  And so Ameribear did, until he heard Bucky Bear had been taken captive by salmon.”  


“I cannot even,” says Bucky, which is a phrase he learned from Clint.  


“Ameribear couldn’t sit by and let his friend get slapped with a bunch of fish.”  Steve jiggles Bucky Bear as if to simulate fish-slapping.  “He knew he had to be brave.  So he smacked all the fish away with his new, improved bear claws, and rescued Bucky Bear.”  


The whole thing sounds like a kid’s show in a fever dream.  “And then what?” Bucky asks.  If Morita ends up in this story as a panda, Bucky’s probably going to have to point out that pandas live in China.

“And then…”  Steve sets the bears down on the bedspread, their shoulders touching.  “Then they went back to Brooklyn and had lots of fun together.  Forever.”  


“You’re telling it wrong,” Bucky says, sitting up.  “Give me those.”

“Buck, I—”

“Bucky Bear fell off a train and got all the stuffing knocked out of his head.”  Bucky lets the bear fall onto the pillow.  “Then Ameribear got turned into a bearsicle because he’s a dumbass.”  He drops that bear onto the other pillow.  “Anyway, the octopuses—not salmon, what the hell kinda villain is that?—found Bucky Bear and had him sending other bears to the garbage dump for ‘em.  Then a buncha humanitarian types thawed out Ameribear and sent him to a kid for Christmas.”

He stands the bears up and makes them face each other.

“And _that’s_ when Captain Ameribear found Bucky Bear.  Bucky Bear couldn’t remember ‘im, but Captain Ameribear knew it was his best bear buddy.  And _then_ they had fun forever.”  Bucky lets the bears sit down, shaking his head.  “Steve, you are the worst at stories.”  


But Steve’s the best at misty-eyed hugs.


	18. The Teddy Bears' Picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by the ask "What would happen if the Bearvengers had a picnic?"

“All right.”  Captain Ameribear opens up the picnic basket, taking out a Tupperware container.  “Bear Widow, here’s your _medovik_.”  


“ _Spasibo_ ,” Bear Widow says, opening up her honey cake and setting it down on the blanket in front of her.  


Next, Captain Ameribear takes out a folded-over paper bag.  He opens it up and peeks inside.  “Looks like a peanut butter and honey sandwich.”

“Mine!” Hawkbear exclaims.  He’s been digging through a patch of clover beside the blanket in search of the four-leafed kind, but now he scrambles back over to claim his lunch.  


Next, Captain Ameribear gives Hulk Bear his thermos of honey and lemon tea—”Thanks, Cap”—Falcon Bear’s baklava—”Mmm-mmm”—and War Machine Bear’s banana honey toast—”Thanks!”—before retrieving his own filled honey cookies and Bucky Bear’s bottle of blackberry honey.

“And that,” says Captain Ameribear, “just leaves Iron Bear’s—“ He pulls out a jar and squints at it.   “Spicy honey?”

“It’s good.”  Iron Bear swipes it out of his paws, clinking it against his mask, having forgotten to lift the face plate.  


“Why would you infuse honey with _chili peppers_?”  


“Where’s your sense of scientific inquiry?” Iron Bear asks.  


“Whatever,” says Captain Ameribear.  “I think, before we eat, we should all go around the blanket and say something that we’re thankful for—”  


“Sir.”  Bucky Bear stands up.  “There are ants approaching.”  


“Good eye, Bucky Bear.”  Captain Ameribear springs into action.  “Battle stations, everyone!”  


“Thank Ursa,” Iron Bear mutters.  “Saved from a Cap speech by an invasion.”  


Captain Ameribear starts throwing his shield, but the ants are fast at moving out of the way.  Bucky Bear starts stomping, but their numbers are formidable against his small feet.  Hawkbear’s arrows only get one ant at a time, and War Machine Bear and Iron Bear’s lasers could set fire to the grass.  Falcon Bear flies up and tries to reflect light off his wings to burn up the ants, but it’s taking too long.

“Regroup!” Captain Ameribear orders.  “We need a plan of attack!”  


“More arrows!” says Hawkbear.  


“Build a fort!” says War Machine Bear.  


“Acknowledge that we’re actually in Bucky’s bedroom and not outside, so the ants have no physical reality,” says Bear Widow.

Everyone looks at Bear Widow.

She sighs.  “Dig a moat!”

“Hawkbear, we don’t have enough arrows,” Captain Ameribear says.  “A fort and a moat will take a long time, and our food will get cold.  Any other suggestions?”

“I have a plan, sir,” says Bucky Bear.  “I need Falcon Bear to fly me.”

“You got it!” Falcon Bear wraps his arm’s around Bucky Bear’s stomach, swooping off into the air with him.  They fly to Red Panda’s den.  Red Panda said it was too warm for red pandas to go out for a picnic today, and she was staying inside to have a cucumber sandwich, which red pandas apparently love.

“Red Panda,” Bucky Bear says upon landing.  “Did you peel the cucumbers before you put them into your sandwich?”

Red Panda pauses from chasing her own tail and nods.

“Do you still have the peels?” Bucky Bear asks.

Red Panda points them to her compost bucket.

Bucky Bear collects the cucumber peels and has Falcon Bear grab hold of him to fly him back.  The rest of the Bearvengers are still fighting the ants when they return.  They’ve hidden all the food back in the basket and put Captain Ameribear’s shield on top to keep the insects out.

“Sir!” says Bucky Bear as soon as his feet touch down.  “Ants hate cucumbers, sir.  If we form a perimeter of the cucumber peels around the blanket, they will stay away.”  


“That sounds just crazy enough to save us!” says Captain Ameribear.  “Let’s do it.”  


They race around the blanket, laying down the peelings.  The ants hiss and retreat.  Bucky Bear and Falcon Bear are given hugs for their exemplary performance.

“And now,” Captain Ameribear says, “let’s eat.”  He opens the basket to sort the food again and frowns.  “Iron Bear.  Did you put your spicy honey on my cookies?”  


“Would I do that?”  


Captain Ameribear sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Spasibo_ is Russian for "Thank you."
> 
> You can find recipes for the Bearvengers' meals here: Bear Widow's [medovik](http://natashaskitchen.com/2014/03/09/8-layer-honey-cake-recipe-medovik/), Hawkbear's [peanut butter and honey sandwich](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/peanut-butter-and-honey-sandwich/), Hulk Bear's [honey and lemon tea](http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/honey_and_lemon_tea/), Falcon Bear's [baklava](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/baklava/), War Machine Bear's [banana honey toast](http://www.food.com/recipe/banana-honey-toast-368605), and Captain Ameribear's [filled honey cookies](http://www.womansday.com/food-recipes/food-drinks/recipes/a11354/filled-honey-cookies-recipe-122736/).
> 
> Iron Bear's [spicy honey](http://mixedmade.com/products/bees-knees-spicy-honey) is a real thing as well.


	19. Movie Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Can you write about the various avengers screening kids movies to see if they're little!Bucky safe? (You mention several movies that are okay and some that aren't and I just imagine each avenger going out of their way to watch children's movies to see if they would trigger Bucky or not and reporting back to Steve with their findings.)"

“I know Snow White and Wizard of Oz are safe.”  Steve scrawls them down in his Bucky Book, a notebook turned dossier of all things Bucky Barnes.  Favorite foods, triggers, most calming bedtime stories, the works.  “He saw those when they came out.”  

So had Steve.  They’d dug coins out of the gutters to pay the admission.  He swallows hard, looking back at the list of suggested children’s movies pulled up on his tablet.  “Uh, Toy Story?”  


“In the second one, the toy thinks his kid’s gonna abandon him for having a torn arm,” Clint says.  


“Right.  Probably not that, then.  Annie?  He used to read her stories in the paper.”  


“Which movie?” Natasha asks.  “There’s at least three.”  


“There are?”  Steve sighs, making another note.  “I guess I should watch them.  I guess I should watch all of these.”  He tries not to think of Bucky before all of this, who was always so happy and outgoing, never afraid of anything.  He tries not to think about how it’s all his fault for inviting Bucky into the Commandos.  


“We can help,” says Clint.  


*

“How’s the VA?” Steve asks, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he kneels down to tie Bucky’s shoes.  


“Good,” says Sam.  “Everyone’s always asking about my adventures with you.  Hey, I watched those Miyazaki movies you asked about.”  


“There you go,” Steve mutters, patting the toe of Bucky’s shoe before he straightens up.  “Think any of ‘em were okay?”  


“My Neighbor Totoro should be good.  He’d probably be okay with Kiki’s Delivery Service and The Cat Returns.   _Don’t_ show him Grave of the Fireflies, holy shit.”  


“Noted.”  


*

“Mary Poppins should be safe,” Bruce says, dropping a sugar cube into his tea.  “My Fair Lady, too, if he’s got the attention span for it.”  


 _Mary Poppins_ , Steve writes.  He vaguely remembers those books at the library, though he’s forgotten what they were about.  “Thanks, Bruce.  I know how busy you are, so it means a lot that you took the time to—”

“Don’t mention it, Steve.  Watching a bunch of movies for you is one of the most pleasant Avengers assignments I’ve ever had.”  


 _That makes one of us_.  Steve doesn’t trust himself to keep from cracking if he mentions what a struggle dealing with all Bucky’s been through can be, so he only nods and smiles and sips his tea.

*

“So he liked the banana ice cream?” Pepper asks.  


“He ate two whole bowls.”  It’s the most Steve’s seen him consume since the forties.  He’d had to look away to keep from tearing up; Steve knows Bucky hates it when people make a big deal about him being able to eat.  “I couldn’t call it ice cream—he wouldn’t have tried it if I had—but he loved it.  Can I get your recipe?”

“Oh, there’s no recipe.  You just freeze bananas and put them in a food processor.  If he’s feeling adventurous, you could add another fruit, or peanut butter.  Or chocolate, unless that upsets his stomach.”  


“Haven’t tried chocolate yet,” Steve mutters, scribbling down notes.  “Oh, hey.  Do you know if Tony watched that Coraline thing yet?”  


“He did,” says Pepper.  “His response was ‘Hell no.’”  


“Good to know.”  


*

“The first How to Train Your Dragon would be good for him,” Natasha says, pulling herself up on the gymnastic rings.  “The hero and the dragon both have prosthetics, and the story doesn’t present them as pitiable or lesser.”  


Steve strikes the punching bag again, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Thor and Bucky sparring in the boxing ring.  “Sounds good,” he pants.  “What about the sequel?”

“The sequel has a villain with a metal arm.  And mind control,” Natasha says quietly.  


“Yeah, that’s out.”  


“Did you ever read Winnie the Pooh when you were kids?” Natasha asks.  She flips herself upside down, arm muscles taut.  “The Disney cartoons are harmless, unless he’d get upset over Eeyore’s tail.”

“He loved Eeyore.”  Steve can remember his own mother reading to him.   Bucky had elbowed Steve in the ribs whenever the donkey was sarcastic or grumpy.   _Just like you, Stevie_.  


Steve steps back from the bag, wiping what’s definitely just sweat away from his eyes.

*

“And so Merida has this bow and you can tell the animators actually studied archery, her form is so—”

“Clint—”

“—and they show her practicing, which is great, too many people think it’s something you just pick up and know, but—”

“Clint—”

“And they even animated the way the arrows—”

“ _Clint_.  Do you think the movie would give Bucky nightmares?”  


“Huh?  No, I think it’d be fine.”  


“Thank you.”  


*

“Buck?”  Steve steps out of the elevator, trying not to let his mind run wild with panic.  “You’re late for dinner, buddy.”  


Bucky doesn’t answer.  

“Come on, Bucky.  Bruce made that casserole you like.”  


Nothing.

Just as Steve’s heart is starting to pound, he hears music from the bedroom.  He finds Bucky curled up around the laptop, watching some cartoon.  There’s a soldier—Steve can’t tell the gender—in what looks like Chinese clothing, climbing up a pole.

“She’s like you,” Bucky mutters, transfixed.  “With the flag.  That was you, right?”

Steve smiles, settling down on the bed beside him.  Steve hadn’t climbed the flagpole, but Bucky half-remembers.  And it’s not even his own memory; it was a story Peggy had told him.  “Yeah.  Yeah, Buck.  It was.”

Dinner can wait.   



	20. If You Can't Say Anything Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Are you going to write more Bucky and Brock interactions?"

“What did you say?” Barnes asks, and how is it that someone who spends so much time acting like a kindergartner can tower over Rumlow this way?  


“Nothing,” Rumlow mutters, shifting on the couch.  “You’re blocking the screen, Barnes.”  


The bastard puts his metal hand on the couch, right next to Rumlow’s head.  “What did you say?” he repeats.

“I said your bear was in my spot!” Rumlow snaps.  It is too much to ask for Barnes to go berserk and kill him?  It’d be a hell of a lot better than dealing with burn wounds and Winter Soldier play dates.  “Didn’t Rogers ever teach you manners?”  


“You said my stupid bear was in your spot,” Barnes corrects.  His eyes are as black as the Soldier’s ever got.  “You said _stupid_.”  


“So fucking what?”  


“Pick up the bear.” Barnes growls.  


“I’m not playing house with you, Barnes.”  


Barnes abruptly straightens, rubbing at his temple.  “Oh.  That thing is happening where I periodically remember being held captive and brainwashed.  Oh, I feel I may do something rash and violent if I’m not appeased.”

Rumlow picks up the bear only because he knows Barnes is enough of a son of a bitch to stop before Rumlow’s dead.  “Happy now?”

“Hug him,” Barnes orders.  


“Fuck you.”  


“ _Hug him_.”  


Here he is, crippled and cowed, hugging the Winter Soldier’s teddy bear.  Hopefully Rollins is getting a laugh in whatever afterlife might exist.  “Satisfied?”

“Say he’s the best bear in the world.”  Barnes crosses his arms.  


Oh hell no.  He’s not going to be Barnes’s dancing monkey for the rest of his sad little life.  “I will not.”

“Oh,” says Barnes, sniffing.  “I feel very young and emotionally insecure and like I might cry for hours if I don’t get my way.”  


The kid would never dare cry to get his way.  Barnes, however, will gladly act like a fussy toddler just to piss Rumlow off.  “He’s the best.  Bear.  In the world.  Now sit the fuck down.”

Barnes does.  “You should kiss his nose.”

“Don’t push your luck.”  



	21. Check Out Any Time You Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "If you wanted an idea for a little interlude, may I suggest one about Bucky touring mental health facilities after his trial?"

“And these are our spa facilities,” the lady says.  Bucky isn’t sure if she’s an administrator or a doctor in a suit dress.  She probably said her position when she met them at the gates, but Bucky had been too busy looking at the fences to listen.  There are two fences: the outer is chainlink with barbed wire at the top.  The inner fence is a very pretty red brick with motion-sensing lights installed every couple of feet.  


Bucky hopes she’s not a doctor.  Doctors make him nervous.

Given that he’s been sentenced to a high security mental health facility for the foreseeable future, that’s a hell of a problem.

“You have a spa?” Pepper asks.  Her voice is too high, too happy, and it reminds Bucky of the actors on radio shows long ago.  He hadn’t realized he remembered those.  


“We absolutely do,” says the lady, ushering them through a set of double doors.  It’s warm here.  There’s a short course swimming pool in the center of the room, a lifeguard perched in a chair above it.  There are pool chairs lined up along one side of the pool, a massage table at the far end.  On the other side of the pool, Bucky turns his head to find—  


“They’ve got Jacuzzis, Buck,” Steve says, his voice forcibly bright as well.  “That would be good for your shoulder, huh?”  


“Yeah,” Bucky mutters.  Throwing himself in one now doesn’t sound like a bad plan, actually; he’s so tense it feels as though his ribs are constricting around his lungs.  


“Before we proceed,” the lady says as they come to the next set of doors, “does anyone have any questions?”  


Tony asks about permitted visiting hours and sign-in procedures, speaking fast and using about three times the number of words Bucky thinks are necessary.  He tries to focus on her answer, he does—it’s the most important thing to know—but he _can’t_.  He’s struggling just to keep himself from crying.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he thinks, pinching cool metal fingers to the bridge of his nose.  He has no right to go to pieces, not here and not ever.  Everyone’s already sacrificed so much to keep him out of prison.  And he _needs_ to be in a place like this, away from society.  He’s dangerous.  He has no right to complain when he’s touring a hospital with its own swimming pool and full size movie screen.

Natasha’s tapping him on the shoulder.  “Bucky?”

“Huh?”  He looks up, dropping his hand down immediately.  “Uh, sorry.  Thinking too hard.  What did you say?”  


“I said,” Steve answers, “do you have any questions right now?”  


“Can I bring my bear?” Bucky asks, and if that doesn’t spell out what a mess his priorities are, nothing will.  


The lady just smiles, probably because she’s used to humoring lunatics.  “We do allow comfort objects, provided they don’t contain any materials that violate our safety guidelines.”

Bucky Bear’s buttons and mask are likely to be out of the question, then.  He wonders how Bucky Bear will feel about showing up naked.  “And he can come everywhere?”

“Everywhere except the showers and the spa.  At those times, an attendant can keep him safe for you.”  


Bucky notices that she’s been careful to use words like attendants and specialists instead of doctors and nurses.  Was she warned of his aversions beforehand, or does this place try to pretend it’s a resort with every patient?

“Anything else?” she asks, and Bucky shakes his head.  


They’re heading toward the patient bedrooms when a man in scrubs walks by.  It’s immediate; Bucky stiffens up, the plates of his arm drawing close together.  It’s so fucking stupid.  Doctors in Bucky’s time didn’t even wear scrubs, and the HYDRA techs rarely had either.  And yet somehow, his mind has learned that scrubs means doctors.

And doctors, of course, mean pain.

Of course Steve notices Bucky’s duress.  He takes Bucky’s right hand, and after a second, Natasha takes the other.

“Remember the first day I found you?” Steve asks.  “How we stopped at the SHIELD hospital before I took you home?”  


Bucky remembers being the asset, taut and calculating.  He still isn’t sure how Steve got him back to the tower after that.  Surely whoever was running the show after Fury must have wanted to lock the Soldier away.  But he’d simply sat, an IV in his hand to combat dehydration as they’d checked his body for damage long since healed.  He nods.

“They helped you feel better, didn’t they?” Steve asks.  “Just like your therapists.  These people are here to help, Buck, I promise.”  


The asset had been afraid in that hospital.  There had been so much equipment he didn’t recognize, so many machines they passed that looked as though they could hurt even more than the chair.  The asset had tilted his head to stare at the fluorescent lights above, trying to dry his tears.

He was that much of a wreck as the asset.  He doesn’t want to know what a mess he’ll be when he’s _five_.

They’ve just entered the patient’s room, all pretty pastels and soft corners, when it hits.  Bucky’s ribs feel tighter than ever, his breaths so quick and shallow.  His vision is swimming, tunneling.  Dr. Worth would call it a panic attack.

And just like that, no one’s listening to the lady talk about their selection of television channels anymore.  She’s not even talking now.  They’re all gathered around him.

“Bucky?  Bucky, look at me.”  


“Bucky, what’s wrong?”  


“Do you need to sit, James?  Tony, bring the chair over.”  


“—needs a glass of water—”

“Get him settled, I’ll call a nurse—”

Then no one’s talking because Bucky’s vomiting all over the nice beige carpet.  


Steve takes charge, just like always.  He sends Pepper and Tony to the en suite for towels and water before guiding Bucky into the chair.  He’s starting to straighten up when Bucky grabs his wrist.

“Steve,” he wheezes.  He can’t tell if the tears on his face are fresh or from the strain of puking.  “Steve, I can’t.  I can’t do this.”  


And Steve just nods like he knew all along.  And of course he did.  “All right.  We’ll call Maria.  You’re not going anywhere.”


	22. Adventures in Babysitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "If the Soldier regressed on another mission, how would Brock and Jack handle it the second time?"

The comb catches a tangle in the Soldier’s hair and he whimpers.

“Sorry, buddy,” Rumlow soothes, gently working out the snare with his fingers.  “I’m almost done, all right?  I won’t pull anymore, promise.”  


“’Kay,” the Soldier whispers.  He’s trembling on Rollins’s lap, and Rumlow understands that.  A mission in swampland in December will do that.  


He hasn’t got a fucking clue what set the Soldier off this time, though, and that’s more than a little worrying.

“All done,” Rollins says when Rumlow slips the comb back into his pack.  “Feel better?”

“Cold.”  


“I know, kid.”  Rollins pulls the space blanket a little tighter around the Soldier’s shoulders.  “Murphy’s coming back soon with dry clothes, don’t worry.”  


Rumlow frowns at the Soldier’s wet hair.  It’s not a rat’s nest anymore, but it’s still drenched and plastered against his neck.  That can’t be comfortable.  “Anders.”

She sticks her head into the tent.  “Am I allowed to know what’s going on now?”

“Get in here and give the Soldier a ponytail.”  Rumlow could do it himself, sure, but Anders has more practice and is less likely to tug.  Besides, they can’t leave her out all night to die of hypothermia.  She’ll have to keep the secret like they have if she wants to keep breathing.  


She comes inside, brows furrowing as she stares at the Soldier.  “What is this, a break in the programming?”

“A secondary function,” says Rollins.  


“One you can’t mention back at the base if you wanna keep your head,” Rumlow adds.  


Anders nods.  Rumlow can’t read her face as she kneels next to the Soldier.  “It’s all right,” she assures when the Soldier stares at her, eyes round and fearful.  “I won’t hurt you.”

There’s a rustle outside, and then Murphy’s crawling in.  “I got the clothes.  And the chocolate chip pancakes—they came in regular, gluten free, and sugar free, and I wasn’t sure which one you wanted, so I got them all.  And they were selling these cute little stuffed animals made out of fabric from bamboo and a portion of the proceeds goes to habitat conservation so I got him this sweet little panther because it’s kind of his color and—” 

“Murphy,” says Rumlow.  “Shut the fuck up and help him change.”  


But the Soldier’s spotted the panther and he actually smiles a little, reaching out.  “ _Kotenok_!”

“The hell was that?” Rollins asks, as the Soldier shifts off his lap to take the toy.  


“Russian,” Rumlow supplies.  “Must have seen a cat on a mission or a base when the Soviets had him.”  


“Here you go,” Murphy actually coos, letting the Soldier cradle the panther to his chest.  “Now let’s get you into something dry—” He pauses.  “Uh, what should I call him when he’s like this?”

“Does it matter?” Rumlow asks.

“Just call him Soldier,” Rollins says at the same time.

“We could call him Caligula,” Murphy offers.  “Because it means little soldier’s boot, and he’s wearing boots and acting lit—”

“Shut the hell up, Izzy,” Anders says, elbowing him out of the way.  She pulls a sweater from the shopping bag and smiles gently at the Soldier.  “Come on, Winter.  Let’s get you ready for bed.”     



	23. Little Soldier Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by a comment from osprey_archer: "Does little Bucky ever come out while he's on a side mission for the Russians?"
> 
> Translations for the Russian should appear if you hover over the text. The translations are also provided in the closing notes.

“American!” Isayev demanded, throwing open the door.  “What have you done?”  


Rumlow sat up.  What he’d been doing for the past hour—the past five hours, actually—was lie on the couch and stare up at the ceiling, counting down the minutes until he could be back home in America.  Pierce had decided to lend the Soldier to the Ruskies for a mission, and Rumlow got hauled along “should specialized maintenance prove necessary.”  What a load of bull.  The Russians built the Soldier; of course they’d know how to put him back together.

Or so Rumlow had thought.  

“I haven’t done shit.  Except breathe.  What, do the Americans do that wrong too?”  Isayev had worked with the Soldier back in the Soviet Union, and from the way he spoke and looked at Rumlow, it was clear the man still held onto the ideologies of the old regime.  Rumlow’s Russian was rusty, probably more than it should have been, but he was fairly sure Isayev had called him an imperialist dog when they were stepping off the plane yesterday.  


“Do you find it humorous to sabotage our mission?”  Isayev was white with rage, a faint pink flush dotting either cheek.  “We will not stand for this without retribution, I assure you!”  


“Whoa.”  Rumlow stood.  Much as he’d love to break this asshole’s jaw, Pierce would have his head if he started a war between the Red Room and HYDRA.  “Here’s an idea, Red.  How about you tell me what’s got your goat before you declare vengeance?”

“Livestock have no part of this,” Isayev snapped.  “What have you done to turn our Soldier into a crying  _rebenok_?”  


Oh, shit.  Oh _shit_.  Fucking Alexander Pierce and his fucking perversions.  Now the mission would fail, and if the Russians didn’t string Rumlow up, Pierce would.  “What happened?  Where is he?”

“We brought him to the kitchens for tea,” Isayev said curtly, turning on his heel to stride back into the hall.  “He looked at the _krolik_ being prepared and suddenly, he is hiding under the table, moaning like a sickly child!  We cannot remove him.”  


Great.  Rumlow tried to come up with a way of saying “you’re going to have to treat him like a little kid and just wait it out” that wouldn’t get him shot where he stood.  He had nothing.

The kitchen was bare save for a cook skinning rabbits at the sink.

“Thought you said you couldn’t get him out?” Rumlow asked.  


Another of the Russians—Markin, he’d called himself—stuck his head through the far door.  “He’s here.  I lured him out with the television.”

It was an old, cathode ray tube television with antennae sticking out of the top.  Static flickered across the screen as the Soldier sat huddled, someone’s coat across his shoulders as he stared transfixed at some stop-motion bear-monkey _thing_ on the TV.

“Hey,” Rumlow said softly.  


The Soldier looked up at first with a shy smile, but that quickly faded to fear.  “H-hi, Commander.”

“You’re all right,” Rumlow assures him, settling down a foot or so away on the floor.  “You’re being very good.  Want some tea?”  


“Uh-uh.”  


“Care to explain what is happening?” Isayev cut in.  Beside Rumlow, the kid flinched a bit.  “Your Secretary will not be so pleased if he hears you caused the Soldier to malfunction.”  


“It’s not a malfunction.”  He struggled to keep his voice level for the Soldier’s sake.  “It’s—it’s a secondary function.  Programmed _by_ the Secretary.”

The Russians glanced at each other.  “And the nature of this function?” Isayev demanded.

Rumlow lowered his eyes to the floor.  “To emulate a child.”

There was a pause.

 “To what end?” Markin asked.

“That’s above my pay grade,” said Rumlow, lying through his teeth.  


Isayev looked as though he had figured out the purpose.  He also looked murderous.  “How do we stop this function, American?”

“That’s also above my pay grade.  Only thing I know is to keep him calm until it passes.”  


“Then we call your Secretary,” Markin said.  “Otherwise, the mission may fail, and—”

Rumlow silenced him with a look.  “We tell the Secretary about this and I guarantee none of us will live to see next week.”  


And then Markin got it, eyes wide and mouth thin.

Isayev shouted a curse in Russian, slamming his boot against the wall.

And the Soldier whimpered, curling in on himself.  Rumlow heard him whisper, but the only word he could make out was “Daddy.”

“Hey,” Rumlow pulled the Soldier into his arms, feeling like an idiot and a pedophile on display for the whole world to scorn.  “It’s all right, no one’s mad at you.  Promise.”  


“But—”  The Soldier sniffs.  At least his eyes are dry.  For now.  “I’m being bad.”

“You’re not.  You’re a good boy.”

Isayev’s face softened as he looked at the Soldier.  He crouched down on the floor beside them, caressing a hand against the Soldier’s cheek.  “I’m sorry, dearest.”  All trace of outrage had melted from his voice.  “I did not mean to frighten you.  You haven’t misbehaved in the least.”

“I haven’t?” the Soldier whispered.

“No, darling, not at all.  Markin.”  Isayev addressed his second in command without taking his eyes from the Soldier.  “Bring our little _soldat_ the _chay_ , won’t you?  And the  _pechen'ye_.”  


“Yes, sir.”  


“You like cookies, don’t you, dearest?” Isayev asked, petting the Soldier’s shoulder now.  


The Soldier’s face lit up.  He was still apprehensive, but his eyes seemed to go from stormy to sky blue in a second.  “Uh-huh.”

Smiling, Isayev sat back.  “Then you shall have all the cookies you like.  Come, sit with your _dyadya_.  I can tell you a story.”

He patted the floor beside him, but when the Soldier made his cautious way over, he sat right in the Russian’s lap.  Rumlow couldn’t decipher the man’s expression.  He looked almost proud, but he also looked ill.

“The story is called The New Soviet Man,” Isayev began.  “It’s about a very important little boy who is going to make the world perfect, darling.  It’s a story about you.”  


Rumlow fought the urge to gag as the Soldier stared, wide-eyed.

Markin returned then with the tea cups.  He also had a jam jar and began to explain to the Soldier in simple words how to properly drink Russian tea.  Isayev caught Rumlow’s eye over the Soldier’s shoulder.

“Once all this is through,” he said, tone pleasant and eyes black with rage, “there will be a reaping.”  


Rumlow smirked.  “You mean a reckoning?”

“You won’t be smiling when it comes, American.  You may not have lips or teeth left to smile.”  Then he turned his attention back to the Soldier, who was now sipping his tea.  “Once upon a time, dearest, there was a little _soldat_...”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> _rebenok_ : baby  
>  _krolik_ : rabbit  
>  _soldat_ : soldier  
>  _chay_ : tea  
>  _pechen'ye_ : cookies  
>  _dyadya_ : uncle
> 
> The television show the Soldier was watching is [Cherburashka.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheburashka)


	24. Living For Nothing Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude is slightly different, as it wasn't a suggestion. It just showed up in my mind. This is the last nice experience Pierce and the Soldier had together before things went sour.

The music from the radio is pretty, the guitar slow and soft.  The asset doesn’t actively listen, the music washing over him like the sunlight filtering through the windows.  He watches the scenery lazily, his eyes half-shut and just focused on the trees they’re zooming past.  He would never be so self-indulgent on a mission, but this isn’t a mission.  This is a reward.  His master said so.

He is turning his head to gaze at his master, maybe to smile at him.  Surely that’s permitted; there is no one around to make note of it.  There is nothing but the car and the radio.  Yet as the asset is turning, the radio demands his attention.

“ _New York is cold but I like where I’m living_ ,” a man sings, and there’s a tingling in the asset’s mind like the air before a thunderstorm.  He doesn’t see the road winding before them anymore or the trees to the sides.  


The asset sees cold, crumbling streets, tall buildings, narrow alleyways.  He hears the rush of fierce wind in his ears, competing with the radio for his focus.  He exhales slowly and nearly sees his breath in the air.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, pulling his mind hundreds of miles from those icy streets, drawing him back to his body.  Pierce is staring at him, his gaze only broken by quick little glances back at the road.     

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” Pierce asks.  His smile is slight, yet it feels like a warm embrace after coming in from a snowfall.  “Don’t you get enough sleep already?”  


“The music,” the asset murmurs, and he does blink as though clearing sleep from his eyes.  


“You don’t like it?”  


“Have I been to New York?”  


And his master’s face frosts over.

He turns his gaze back to the road, hardly breathing, and for a long moment the asset doesn’t think he’ll answer at all.  Then he breathes out with such force it sounds as though a weight has been removed from his chest.  “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

The asset listens, rapt.

“It wasn’t your fault—that damn handler—I should have known he wasn’t fit to lead.  And by the time I got there it was a bloodbath, your arm dangling off, and the only thing you could say was to beg me not to bring you back there ever again before you passed out.”

Pierce looks so pale, so old.  The asset’s entire being tightens and cramps in wretched horror at the distress he’s caused.

“And I thought—thought you’d never wake again, thought I’d never get to say—”  He cuts off, reaching for the radio.  “I didn’t mean to give you bad memories.”  


“Please.”  The asset lays his hand flat on the radio.  He doesn’t risk touching his master when the man is agitated.  “I like it.  Don’t be sad.”  


Pierce nods.  Neither of them speaks.  The song plays on.

“ _Ah, the last time we saw you, you looked so much older.  Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder.  You’d been to the station to meet every train_...”  


The sensation of static under the asset’s scalp returns.  He says nothing.

His master is smiling again by the time they reach the house.

It’s a summer home, Pierce said, and the asset doesn’t ask what that means.  The information isn’t relevant.  It is a large house, situated deep within woods and adjacent to a lake.

The asset strips naked and dives into the lake as his master watches from dock.  The water is clear and cool.  The asset takes a mouthful by mistake and the taste is so fresh, so different from anything in the labs, that he cannot help but swallow.

“You look like a mermaid,” Pierce says, his bare feet dangling just above the lake as the asset treads water below him.  The asset doesn’t ask what that means either.  He assumes from his master’s smile that it is a nice thing.  


The air in the house is old and stale but Pierce opens up the windows as the asset dries himself in the bathroom.  A little girl’s swimsuit, dusty, hangs from the towel rack.

They both have wine glasses as they sit on the deck, though the asset’s holds only water.  Pierce’s is deep red with a rich, warm scent he lets the asset breathe in.

“Do you like this place?” his master asks, carding his fingers through the asset’s still damp hair.  


“It’s pretty,” says the asset.  “You have so many pretty things.”  


Pierce is smiling again.  “You’re the prettiest of all.”

When the asset wakes in the morning, there’s a half-remembered melody running through his mind.  He stares at his still-sleeping master in adoration: his silk bedclothes, his shining hair, his lined face.

Acting on an impulse the asset cannot explain, he retrieves his knife and cuts free a lock of his own glossy dark hair.  He replaces the knife before pressing the lock to his master’s hand.

Pierce rouses then.  “You silly thing, what have you done to yourself?”

“I don’t like to leave you,” the asset says slowly, trying to put the fluttering sensations within him into words.  “And now—if you keep this, it’s a part of me, and I am always with you.”  


Pierce’s kiss is soft, soft as the bed beneath them.

The asset cannot eat the breakfast sizzling on the stove, but Pierce teaches him to wrap his hands around the handle of the frying pan, guides him through flipping the contents.  The asset laughs, the sound so light, and when Pierce is through with his meal, the asset kisses away any trace left on his lips.

The leaves are pretty.  The path they walk through the woods, hand in hand, is pretty.  The birds chattering around them sound pretty.

“We can’t stay much longer,” Pierce says once they’re back at the house.  He’s on the couch, the asset’s head resting in his lap.  


The asset’s mouth turns down in an involuntary pout, and his master laughs.

“Don’t make that face,” he says.  “Here.”  


He nudges the asset up.  There’s a large stereo system along the wall and Pierce switches it on.  The music is soothing, unfamiliar.  He’s content to sit on the couch and let it spill over it him.

He’s content until the song he knows begins to play.

“ _It’s four in the morning, the end of December._..”  


The asset stands, a marionette on invisible strings.  His right hand extends to his master, who looks at him curiously.

“I want,” says the asset, but he doesn’t know what it is he desires.  His mind stumbles over the blank space where a word should be, a stone missing from the path.

Of course Pierce knows.

His hand clasps the asset’s as he stands.  He brings their bodies close together, his other hand resting at the asset’s waist.

And the asset, as if pulled by strings again, rests his metal hand on Pierce’s shoulder.

They move, holding each other, in a small, slow circle.  Twice the asset tries to anticipate the steps and guide the pattern, but each attempt only ends with their feet colliding.  It’s better when his master leads.

 “ _And thanks for the trouble you took from her eyes..._ ”  


The asset feels bright, warm.  He’s aware of tears on his face, but they aren’t from pain.  And Pierce seems to understand, smiling, kissing them away.

“ _That night that you planned to go clear_...”  


“You’re perfect,” Pierce mutters.  


“You’re everything,” the asset responds, and Pierce is so gentle, so kind as he guides him back to the car.  


He is never kind again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that transfixes the Soldier is Leonard Cohen's ["Famous Blue Raincoat."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9aRKZFR5imM)


	25. Selfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "If you're still taking ideas for Little Interludes, what about one of Bucky and Tasha's sleepovers? Possibly from Tasha's perspective?"

Bucky’s whimpering.

Tasha glances up at the ceiling, where her alarm clock projects the numbers.  They’d only gone to sleep barely over an hour ago.  How does he get nightmares so _fast_?

Except Tasha had nothing but nightmares for years when she first came to SHIELD, and she still has bad dreams sometimes even now.  So it’s not like she can be mad.  And she wasn’t sleeping anyway.

Tasha climbs down the ladder, her steps too careful to make any noise.  Bucky doesn’t always remember he fell asleep in her room when he gets up in the morning, and she doesn’t want him waking up in what seems like a weird place with banging metal noises around him.

“Bucky.”  She takes his right hand.  The robot one can squeeze way too hard when he’s sleeping.  “Hey, Bucky.”  


He opens his eyes, quieting.  “Did I wake you up?”

“No.  I woke _you_ up ‘cause I was hungry.  You know the best part of sleepovers is raiding the fridge, right?”  


“I’m not supposed to get out of bed.”  Bucky rubs at his eyes with the metal fist.  Then that hand slips under the covers.  He’s really careful about checking his sheets and pull-ups.  Sometimes Tasha wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to worry, that these sheets are protected just like the one on his own bed, but of course she can’t.  Bucky’s littler than she is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get embarrassed.  


And he’s been embarrassed enough already.

When Bucky doesn’t say anything about needing the bathroom, she figures he’s okay to go on an expedition.  And now that she’s suggested it, she really wants one.  “It’ll be fun,” she promises.  “We can get that new sorbet you like, the lemony kind.  Or make brownies in a mug.  Whatever you want.”

Bucky bites his lip.  She can almost hear the wires crossing and smoking in his head.  He wants to have fun.  But he wants to be good.  Bucky always wants to be such a good kid.

Tasha wants to be _loud_.  She wants to be messy and rude and sleep all day if she feels like it.  She wants to jump on the bed and the couch and play music whenever she wants, as long as she wants.  Tasha wants to scribble on the walls and get second helpings and yell until she loses her voice.

She wants to _be_.

“C’mon,” she says, shaking his shoulder a little.  “I’ve always really wanted to.”  


When he nods, she tells herself it’s because big sisters always get their way.  He’s been here long enough to know he can say no.  He _has_.

The light in the kitchen is on, and Bucky lingers in the elevator, squeezing tight to his bear.  Tasha guesses he’s afraid it’ll be Steve, afraid of disappointing his dad.  But when Tasha whispers to JARVIS to ask who’s there, they find it’s just Tony.

He’s greasy and a little scraped up, so he’s probably just been in his lab.  He’s digging through the cabinets like a hungry raccoon, and Tasha imagines he’s run out of coffee down there.  She wonders how much he’s already had.  They have machines for blood alcohol levels; do they have that for caffeine?

Tony spots them and tries to look disapproving, but it doesn’t work because Tony’s lost the right to disapprove of anything anyone does ever.  Tasha thinks of his birthday party and what a mess that was, how Pepper blamed _her_ for it.

Sometimes Tasha’s mad about that.  But out of everything, that’s a dumb thing to be mad about.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” he asks.  


“Didn’t _you_ say you’d get a full night’s sleep no matter what you were working on?” Tasha counters, crossing her arms.  


“I’ll make you cookie sandwiches if we never speak of this again,” Tony says.  


Bucky glances at Tasha, who turns up her nose.  “Cookie sandwiches _and_ smoothies.”

And Tony makes a big production of sighing as Tasha rolls her eyes.  “You drive a hard bargain.”  But he sticks out his hand and she shakes.  “Deal.”

Bucky sits at the counter wide-eyed. like he’s just watched a nuclear arms treaty negotiated.  Tasha’s cookie sandwich is peppermint sorbet with two sugar cookies.  Bucky’s is double chocolate cookies with strawberry.  Then Tony makes one for himself, and it doesn’t surprise Tasha that he’s got espresso ice cream.

“Does Bucky Bear want any honey?” Tony asks.  


Yawning, Bucky shakes his head.  “He’s too sleepy for honey.”

They both get a good night kiss before they go, although Tasha squirms enough that she can’t really be sure if Tony’s lips ever touched her hair.

“Everything okay?” Tasha asks Red Panda when they get back to the bedroom.  She’d left the panda standing guard.  Everything’s fine according to Red Panda, and on Tasha’s dresser, Mor’du agrees.  


“Night, Tasha,” Bucky whispers.  


She shuts her eyes.  “Night.”

JARVIS sometimes plays music to help them rest, and right now the song is Beethoven’s Für Elise.  Tasha doesn’t like a lot of classical music, but this one’s okay because she never had to dance to it.  So she doesn’t have to try to sleep while remembering the steps, the form, the pinch of her pointe shoes and the lashes if she made a mistake or, more often, if she was too good, better than her instructor.

Then next time Bucky whimpers, it’s four hours later.

When Tasha wakes him this time, she can see the flush in his face even in the dark.  He shifts around under the blankets, and he won’t meet her eyes.  “I—”

“You know what helps with nightmares?” Tasha asks.  “Really hot showers.  Those always made me feel better.”  


She can actually see him relax.  “Okay.”

Bucky leaves his bear on the bed when he goes to the shower, so Tasha slips back into her own bunk.  The bear is a little creepy in the dark, its black mask seeming like a big hole in its face.

Sometimes this feels like a mask, all of it.  That’s how she felt about SHIELD at first too, but this is more.  None of the others will judge it, she knows, because it’s to help Bucky, but it’s deeper than that.  She’s always, always wanted to be that girl.  That girl who could do whatever she wanted, who could sleep without a cuff on her wrist.  She’s always wanted to be a _brat_ , to be selfish and wild and everything that was never allowed.  And she’s dreamed of it long before Bucky.

He can’t help it.  He’s five years old as much as he’s ninety, as much as he’s whatever age his body became in the stretches of waking.  But she’s just pretending, and sometimes she worries everyone can see it.  Everybody knows her altruism is really just pitiful playacting.

What if there comes a day when Bucky doesn’t need it anymore?  How can she tell anyone that she still does?  How can she say how much it hurts sometimes to have to go from little to big so fast?

She was never taught to be a child, only a killer.  Always hard, never soft.

There’s a sickness in her stomach that’s not from too many cookies.  But then Bucky is coming back out of the bathroom and she pushes it down, smiling.  For Bucky.  This is all for her little brother.

“Sorry I messed up your sleep,” she says, because she can’t say _Sorry I made you drink a smoothie at night and probably made you wet yourself because I wanted to be an impulsive kid_.  


“That’s ‘kay,” Bucky says, already yawning again as he settles into the sheets.  “Everybody always does the kid stuff I like.  It’s nice to do stuff for you.  Nice to see you happy.”  


She chokes on any potential response, overcome with gratitude.  By the time she can think to reply, Bucky’s already fast asleep.


	26. Marshmallow Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another story without a prompt. It was an attempt on my part to see if I could tell a horror story without ever directly outlining or displaying horrific things in the text.

The night sounds like crickets and crackling branches.

It seems funny as he listens to it, like he’s picked out one of Daddy’s CDs only to hear the wrong voice come out of the speakers.  He thinks the night should sound like cars or pipes or rattly furnaces, but that doesn’t make any sense.  Daddy’s house never sounds like any of those things, and he’s not close to any cars when he’s napping in the ice.

When he’s in bed here, cuddled up to his rabbit, the night sounds like crickets and sometimes the mattress squeaking.  It’s just that the crickets are a little louder outside; maybe that’s what’s weird.  He’s never gone in the yard before.

It was Daddy’s idea, and that was also funny.  Daddy doesn’t like to share him, so they never go places other people might see.  But it’s dark and there aren’t any close by neighbors.  The light from the fire doesn’t go very far.

Daddy pulls his hand back from the flames.  They both have long metal sticks with points at one end—he thinks of cheese, but it’d be silly to put cheese over a fire—that they’re using to roast marshmallows.

“Is yours about done?” Daddy asks, sliding his marshmallow between two pieces of graham cracker.  The bottom piece has chocolate on it.  Daddy says this is called a s’more, and some kids called Girl Scouts invented them.  The Girl Scouts must be very smart.  


“Almost.”  He pushes his own stick a little lower into the fire.  “Thanks.”  


“What for?”  


“Um.”  He puts his feet up on the seat of his chair, not sure where to start.  “For taking me out here.  And, uh, making the fire.  This is really nice.”  


“Isn’t it?”  Daddy smiles, reclining in his own chair.  “We’re just far enough from all the city lights to see the stars.  Aren’t they beautiful?”  


He tilts his head back.  There are a lot of stars.  They stretch out forever and it makes him dizzy, so he looks away.  “I like the fire.  It’s warm.”

Daddy’s hand is on his arm then, stroking up and down.  “Poor little snowflake.  You’re so hard to heat up.”

There’s a sound a ways off, a twig snapping.  He tenses.  All of his guns and knives are still in the house.  Most are in his bedroom where he changed clothes, but there’s one knife on Daddy’s entryway table.  Daddy had asked him to use it to open some letters.  Daddy’s important so he gets a lot of mail.  Most of them were from places with government logos on their envelopes and  the flag on their stamps.

The asset had been given a stamp once on a mission.  It had a yellow dog on it rather than a flag, and his handler made him put it on his tongue instead of an envelope.  All of the team had done the same.

He doesn’t think he ever worked with those men again.

“Your marshmallow’s going to melt right into the fire, sweetheart.”  


His marshmallow is _on_ fire when he looks back at it.  The outside is all black and crackly when he blows the flames out, but he thinks it’s better that way.  He’s not sure why he thinks that, because he’s never had marshmallows.  He doesn’t think they’re on the list of foods the doctors said were okay, but Daddy said they were, and Daddy’s the boss.

“Sure you don’t want another?” Daddy asks, and he shakes his head.  “Okay.  Well.  At least we know it’s toasted.  Here.”  


He slowly puts the marshmallow on top of the chocolate and graham cracker Daddy’s holding out, careful not to burn Daddy with the hot metal.  Daddy puts another cracker over the marshmallow, trapping it there when the stick pulls out.

“And _voila_.  One very well-done s’more.  First you’ve ever had, isn’t it?”  


“Uh-huh.”  


Daddy smiles.  “Shut your eyes and open your mouth for me.”

He thinks he knows this game, but then there’s honey-flavored crackers and crispy marshmallow brushing up against his lips.  When he bites down, Daddy moves the s’more back, and gooey strands of marshmallow stretch across the space.

It’s really, really good.

He gets marshmallow all over their faces when he kisses Daddy’s cheek, but Daddy doesn’t mind, laughing and kissing him again and again until most of the sugary mess is gone.  He even gets to have another s’more, which Daddy lets him eat on his own like a grown-up.

When he’s done, there’s marshmallow all over his face and hands, even in the little crooks of his metal fingers, but Daddy just laughs.  “What would you do without me, sweetheart?  Come on, let’s get you a bath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stamp given to the Soldier by his handler was LSD.


	27. Willy Nilly Silly Old Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "If you're still taking suggestions, could you write more about Bucky's early days in the tower?"

Bucky needs to be out of bed.

He needs to be helpful, in whatever capacity his stained, malfunctioning being can still serve.  He has been very bad this week.  He has made Steve cry and he has soiled the bed sheets every night since, save for this morning.  He needs to make reparations.

But he feels so tired, so listless, like a marionette with his strings sliced.

The bear that Steve gave him before Bucky ruined everything lies beside him on the pillow.  He has kept it close by ever since Natasha put the bear back into his hands as he was crying.  It’s the closest thing he has to Steve now that Steve can’t stand the sight of him.

There’s a smudge of dirt on the bear’s nose from where he struck it with a boot.  With a surge of guilt and self-disgust—how dare he defile Steve’s gift?—he wipes the dirt away.  His hand lingers on the bear once it’s clean, lifting it for a closer examination.

 _You look like you need a friend_ , Natasha had said when she gave him the bear to hold.

What is a friend?

Steve had used that word too.   _You’re my best friend and I love you_.

He doesn’t think Steve loves him anymore.

His eyes feel unacceptably warm, so he pushes the thought away, staring at the bear.  Steve was his friend before he messed everything up.  Steve is in charge, just as Pierce had been.  So either the bear is Bucky’s to order, or it’s meant to mind him in Steve’s absence.

Bucky’s not worthy to order anything, not even a stuffed bear.

But stuffed bears can’t give orders.  They can’t even speak.

His fingers are running back and forth over the bear’s fur.  It’s very soft.  So is the bear’s coat, which makes Bucky think of the Smithsonian display.  He is not sure what to think of the toy’s red nose.  That doesn’t seem accurate.

It’s a nice bear, Bucky decides, as though he has any prior bear experience.  He’s been carrying it because Steve gave it to him, because Natasha put it back in his hands when he set it down, and because Sam asked him to use it to tell a story.  But he thinks he likes this bear.  He thinks he would want it near him even if he’d acquired it through other means.

He tries to imagine that the bear can speak.  Tries to mimic what a friend would say.

 _Get up Bucky,_ the bear says, but not really.   _Come on.  You can be good.  You are good_.

Smiling a little, Bucky sits up.  Maybe Natasha was right about friends.  Maybe he won’t miss Steve so much.

Though he doubts it.


	28. For All Ages

“The hell?”  


Bucky pauses halfway through putting up the dishes, tilting his head at Rumlow’s cabinet.  On the shelf, nestled between clouded glasses and mismatched plates, there’s a child’s sippy cup.  It’s clear plastic apart from the blue lid with a red rim.

He picks it up, then makes his way to the bathroom where Rumlow’s styling his hair.  “Are you dating a single mom?”

“Huh?”  Rumlow doesn’t look away from the mirror.  Bucky isn’t sure how a man who takes so much time preening himself ever got a job on a tac-team in the first place.  “What about dating?  I know _you’re_  not offering to play matchmaker—have you even spoken to a normal person since the forties?”  


“Are you dating a single mom?” Bucky repeats.  “You better not be dating at all.  I’ll lose my bet to Clint.”  


“Glad to know you have so much faith in me, Winter,” Rumlow mutters, still not looking away from the mirror.  How can a burn victim be this vain?  “No, I’m not dating a single mom.  Why, you want a playmate?”  


“Then what’s with the baby cup?” Bucky asks, holding it up.  


Rumlow finally turns his head, though he’s looking back at his reflection in under a second.  “That’s for you.”

Bucky would drive his fist through the glass to teach Rumlow a lesson about mocking him, but he doesn’t sound like he’s laughing.  He says it like it ought to be common sense, with no trace of his usual smirk.  Either he’s improved his poker face, or he’s being honest.  Bucky isn’t sure which would be worse.  “ _Why_?”

Apparently assured that his hair is now flawless, Rumlow opens the medicine cabinet, sticking his gel back inside.  “Because last week you spent a half hour sniffling when you ran into the coffee table.  I’m not risking the consequences if you break a glass.”

Bucky’s too busy flushing to hurl the cup at Rumlow’s head.  “I won’t.  And I’m not fucking using this.”

Rumlow stares at him.  The scar tissue doesn’t prevent him from being able to raise an eyebrow.  “You’ll carry a teddy bear down the streets of New York, but you won’t use a kid’s cup?”

“That bear is a highly trained operative,” Bucky snaps.  “And these cups are for toddlers!”  


Rumlow glances at it.  “Since when?”

“Uh, since their inception?  I’m five, not _two._ ”  Bucky shakes his head.  “You know the difference, right?  You’ve seen actual children in the real world, right?”  


Rolling his eyes, Rumlow pushes past Bucky and into the hall.  “I am great with kids.  You finish the dishes yet?”

“I’m not using this,” Bucky insists, trailing after him.  


“Well, I lost the receipt, so you’re gonna have to.”  


“Like hell.”  


*

“Thanks, Commander,” Bucky says, taking the cup with both hands.  


“You’re welcome.”  The Commander settles down on the couch, placing the bag of popcorn between them, fresh out of the microwave.  “Need anything else?  Your bear got his honey?”  


Bucky nods, slipping the spout of the cup between his lips.  It’s full of apple juice, which is Bucky’s favorite and which he always makes sure is in the Commander’s fridge.  He tries to suck up the juice, but nothing happens.  He tries a second time, harder, and ends up with a mouthful.

“Good,” the Commander says, setting the laptop on the coffee table.  “Movie time.”  


Bucky swallows the juice, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve.  “What are we watching?”

“It’s a new one.  For us, anyway.  It’s called Ted.”  


“What’s it about?” Bucky asks, his words a little muffled because the cup’s back in his mouth again.  


“A bear.  I know you like bears.”  


Bucky glances at Bucky Bear, perched on the arm of the couch with a honey bottle in his paws.  “Yeah.”

“Let’s get started.”  


It begins with a little boy who gets a teddy bear for Christmas.  The bear can only say “I love you” over and over, so the boy wishes he could talk for real.  Then the bear can.  Bucky’s glued to the screen, imagining if everyone else could hear when Bucky Bear speaks.  He likes the new cup the Commander gave him.  He doesn’t have to worry about spilling it no matter how much he’s focused on the movie.

The boy and the bear grow up.  They’re still best friends and they use a lot of words Bucky’s not allowed to say.

He feels the Commander looking at him.  “Hey, Winter.”

“Uh-huh?”  


“Don’t repeat any of this when you go home, all right?  I’d rather not get a lecture from Cap about age-appropriate media.”

Bucky’s been gently, absentmindedly chewing on the spout of his new cup.  He stops now, looking all the way at the Commander.  “But you said Daddy’s a self-righteous blowhard who doesn’t scare you.”

The Commander winces.  “Don’t tell him I said that, either.”

Bucky nods.  He puts the spout of the cup back in his mouth just to be sure he won’t accidentally repeat anything he shouldn’t.  He doesn’t realize how much time he spends sucking on it until the second time the Commander has to pause the movie to fill it back up for him.

He doesn’t repeat any of the stuff the Commander told him not to say when he gets back home.

He does ask Daddy about sippy cups, though.


	29. Honey Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "I NEED to see Murphy and Bucky Bear with the agave nectar. For reasons."

Meanwhile, in an alternative universe in which Murphy is still around Bucky post-Insight:

“Lunch time!”  Agent Murphy sets the plate down in front of Bucky.  It’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut into triangles.  He follows that with a glass of milk, and then puts a bottle of thick golden liquid in front of Bucky Bear.  “Need anything else?” he asks, giving the bear’s foot a little squeeze.  


Bucky’s about to say ‘No thank you’ when he notices his bear frowning.  “Uh,” he says, reading the label on the bottle.  “This isn’t honey.”

“Hmm?” Agent Murphy asks, putting the peanut butter back in his pantry.  “Oh.  No, it’s agave nectar.  It tastes just like honey, Bucky Bear, I promise.”  


Bucky really doesn’t want to argue, but Bucky Bear’s adamant.  “He only eats honey, though.”

“Oh sweetie.”  Agent Murphy strokes the bear’s head, frowning a little.  “I don’t have any honey here.  Can you try it?”  


 _No,_  says Bucky Bear quite firmly.  He says some other things too, but Bucky would get in trouble for repeating them, so he just tells Agent Murphy about the “no.”

Agent Murphy looks really worried, more than Bucky thinks is necessary.  “You know, Bucky Bear,” he says, sounding miserable, “some beekeepers aren’t very nice to the bees.”

“You drink milk,” Bucky whispers.  He doesn’t say any of the other stuff the bear’s saying about bleeding hearts or Insight’s genocide or B12.  Bucky isn’t sure what B12 is.  


Agent Murphy sighs.  “I’ve been to the farm where this milk comes from,” he says.  “I know that they’re nice to the cows.  I don’t know any beekeepers.”

Bucky frowns, thinking.  “If there’s a store nearby, I could go buy some honey.”

“No,” Agent Murphy says firmly.  “Kids shouldn’t have to buy things when there are adults around to take care of them.  Just eat your sandwich, okay, Bucky?”  He takes his phone from his pocket.  “I’ll find a store nearby with nice honey, and then we can go on an adventure.”  


“Okay,” says Bucky, taking a bite.  


Bucky Bear sits glowering at the nectar until Agent Murphy puts it back in the cabinet.


	30. Baby Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Is there an interlude for the time Tasha made BuckyBear be the baby? If not could there be one, maybe, please?"

“Bucky Bear doesn’t wanna play,” Bucky mumbles, watching Tasha swaddle his bear in a blanket.  


Tasha pauses her wrapping to study Bucky Bear.  “He’s probably colicky,” she says knowledgeably.  “That makes babies grumpy.”

“He doesn’t wanna be a baby.”  Really, really doesn’t want to.  Bucky’s not allowed to say most of the words Bucky Bear is using to express this.  


“But he’s baby-sized,” Tasha protests, holding him up.  He is baby-sized.  And frowning a lot.  


Bucky squirms, toying with his shoelaces.  His tummy hurts.  “So’s Red Panda.”

Red Panda is curled up on the floor by Tasha’s feet.  Tasha gives Bucky one of her authoritative ‘I’m the big sister’ looks.  “Red Panda’s gotta be the dog.  She has a tail.”

“Some dogs don’t have tails,” he whispers.

Tasha doesn’t answer.  She’s gently swinging Bucky Bear up in her arms, cooing at him.  “See, Baby Bucky Bear?  It’s fun.”

“He says it’s not,” Bucky reports dutifully, staring down at the floor.  “He says I’ll have to go to work and you’ll be alone all day and it’s not any fun at all.”  


“He’s a silly baby bear,” she says, cradling the bear’s stomach to her shoulder and patting his back.  “We both work.  From home, so we can watch our baby grow up.”  


There’s a weird noise that Bucky realizes is his shoes scuffling on the floor.  He’s rocking back and forth a little.  Bucky Bear really doesn’t like playing this game.  The blankets are squeezing him too tight and he’s a highly trained operative.  He’s not a baby.  He doesn’t like pretending and he doesn’t like people acting like he can’t take care of himself.  The bear feels like he’s going to throw up.

But he can’t throw up because Tasha has his honey bottle and she’s putting it to Bucky Bear’s mouth.

“He eats by osmosis,” Bucky says.  


“Not when he’s a baby.  He’s too little for that.”  


 _Then he eats through his nose_ , Bucky does not say.  “He’s growling.”

Tasha frowns, lifting up the bottle for a second so she can pat Bucky’s forehead.  “He needs a nap after he’s done eating.  We can sing to him.”

Bucky opens his mouth to argue.  Bucky Bear’s telling him lots of things to say now that the bottle isn’t in his mouth.  But Tasha’s looking at the bear like he’s a real baby, and she looks really sad.  Bucky knows she didn’t get to play games when she was growing up.  He never really thought about how she didn’t give to have a family when she was little either.

“Okay,” he says.  


When they lay Bucky Bear down on the pillow that’s now a crib, Bucky loosens the blankets a little.  Tasha sings, a Russian lullaby that Bucky doesn’t know, but he hums along.

They let the baby sleep all day.  Bucky Bear likes that better.


	31. Cannibearism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Obviously no one is gonna hand him Bear Secretary Pierce but"
> 
> **Note:** This is definitely not in continuity. It's just a bizarre, imaginary story, like comic books used to tell.

“I’m bored,” said Hawkbear.  


“We could go on a mission,” said Bucky Bear.  


“That’s all we ever do,” said Falcon Bear.  “We need a new hobby.”  


Bear Secretary Pierce came striding through the doorway.  “We can build a better world,” he said.  “We can ensure the safety of seven billion bears by eliminating-”

Captain Ameribear knocked over Bear Secretary Pierce with his shield.

“I’ve got a new hobby we could try,” Iron Bear suggested.  “Dismemberment!”  


“And then cannibalism,” Bear Widow added.  


So they tried them both, and everyone enjoyed themselves immensely.


	32. Playmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Will we ever see more of Crystal?"

“You like bubble tea?” Crystal asks as Bucky stares blankly at the coffee menu.  He remembers coffee being simpler: black, sugar, or cream. There was also something called espresso in Italy, but Steve says Bucky’s not allowed to have that anymore.  Apparently there was an incident.

“Bubble tea?” he repeats, feeling the heat of a flush slowly spreading through his face.  Bucky hates not knowing things almost as much as he hates being in public.  In his backpack, Bucky Bear’s sulking; he’s less suspicious of Crystal since she helped him knock down blocks, but he still thinks meeting in an unsecured coffee shop is a recipe for disaster.

So does Bucky, honestly. Just not in the ambush sense that Bucky Bear worries about.

“Does it have milk in it?” he asks.

“Only if you want it,” Crystal says.  She doesn’t have her hair in pigtails like she did at the meet up.  It’s in a long braid with a sparkling clip shaped like a butterfly at the bottom.  She probably doesn’t have any stuffed animals hidden in her purse.  Maybe if Bucky tries hard enough, he can melt into the floor. Maybe HYDRA taught him how.  “Lactose intolerant?”

“Sort of.”

“It’s like iced tea with tapioca pearls in it,” she explains.  “Do you like tapioca?”

“Yes,” says Bucky, not because he remembers but because Crystal works here.  She’d asked if they could hang out after the end of her shift; she just took off her apron a minute ago.  If she suggested it, she must like it.  If she likes it, it would be rude not to try it.  So that’s how he ends up with a green bubble tea in his gloved hand.

“So,” Bucky says, poking with his straw at one of the tapioca pearls lurking at the bottom of the cup.  “You work here.”

What a brilliant observation.  Like she hadn’t established that in her email.  Like he hadn’t known that for a whole week leading up to today.

Steve says Bucky was good at talking to girls.  Must be another thing the chair took away.

“For the past five months,” Crystal says, and then slurps at her frappuccino.  “Can I ask what you do?”

“I…don’t work.”  He should tell her who he is.  His therapists would encourage him to open up and besides, if he doesn’t tell her right away, she’ll be angry or upset when she finds out.  But what’s he supposed to say?  ‘By the way, I’m the Winter Soldier’?  She’d probably run screaming down the street.  “I’m on disability.”  And that’s actually true; so many media pundits were furious about it for weeks. He sucks on his straw, forgetting about the tapioca, and blinking in surprise when it lands on his tongue, sweet and gelatinous.

Crystal giggles at his expression.  “You get used to it.”

“So…”  He scraps his straw along the bottom of the cup again. “How long have you been—going to Toy Box?”  He’d nearly asked how long she’s been little, but that seems too private a thing to ask on a second meeting.

“About a year.”  Just talking about it lights up her face.  It must feel nice to feel so safe in that space, so accepted.  “They asked me to help organize the meetings a couple months back, but I don’t have the stamina for that kinda responsibility, you know?”

Bucky nods.  Sometimes he barely has the stamina to get out of bed.

“Your little bear was so cute,” she continues, already halfway done with her own drink.  “Where’d you get him?  He looked, like, vintage.”

“He was a present.” And now Bucky’s face is absolutely on fire.  He doesn’t want to think about the day Steve gave him the bear.  “From my, uh, from—”

“You have a caregiver?” Crystal asks, and he nods because that’s what Steve is, whatever age Bucky’s at. “Well, they’ve got great taste in stuffies.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky sips the tea as his bear fumes over being called a ‘stuffie.’  “He’s—he’s great, he’s my best friend.”

“You should invite him along next month,” she offers, and horror must show on his face because she immediately adds, “I mean—if he’s into the community, I know some people are more private, my last caregiver, she wasn’t big on—”

“It’s complicated.” How the hell is he supposed to explain that he was programmed to be little and it’s something his friends have to deal with whether they really want to or not?  She wouldn’t believe him.  She’d probably think he was making fun of the whole culture.  What Bucky wouldn’t give to choke on tapioca just to end the conversation.  “See, my last d—the man who got me into this—he wasn’t—it wasn’t a healthy relationship.”

Then Crystal’s hand is on top of his and he starts, hoping she can’t feel the metal through his glove. “I’m sorry, James.”  He can’t read her face.  Maybe she’s just sympathetic.  Maybe she’s been mistreated too.

“I—thank you.  It’s okay.”  Bucky shakes his head.  “It’s just—even now that I’m away from him, it’s still something I want, you know? And Steve—he says that’s okay, but I don’t think he’d be into this if I didn’t need it.  He’d come with me if I asked, I know he would.  I just—I don’t want to ask.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

Bucky smiles, but it’s forced.  “Remember how I was hiding under the table when we met?  I’m not the best at using words.”

Crystal looks thoughtful and a little sad, so he stares down at the table, trying to focus on finishing his tea and nothing else.

“Hey,” she says as he’s sucking up the last of the tapioca.  “Do you like cats?”

Bucky’s not sure when he was last around a real life cat.  They seem cute enough on TV, though.  “Uh, yeah.”

“I’ve got a kitten in my apartment who’s probably yowling to be fed.”  Crystal shifts the strap of her purse up onto her shoulder.  “My place is just around the corner, if you’d like to meet her?  Maybe we could watch some cartoons?”

This time, he gives her a real smile as he’s standing up, sliding off his own backpack.  “Sure.  On the way, do you want to hold my bear?”


	33. The Floor Is Lava

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Bucky walking alone on the street and suddenly he regresses cause of some unknown trigger and can only cry and ask for his daddy, bystanders call for the police and one police man (looks a bit older, probably a father himself) comforts him, they go to police station and call Steve to pick him up. When Steve arrives at the station everybody is playing "The floor is lava" on the desks to comfort Bucky :)"

Steve’s certain he broke multiple traffic laws on his way to the station and equally sure that the only reason he wasn’t pulled over is because he’s Captain America.  He definitely passed a few squad cars, and those were just the ones he had the presence of mind to note.

But who’s going to be the asshole who pulled over Captain America?

Usually, Steve frowns on exploiting his status that way.  Usually, he doesn’t get a call from the police station informing him that Bucky had a public breakdown and needs a ride home.

Damn it, Bucky had been doing _better._   He had.  It had been a full two weeks since the last panic attack.  Or maybe the last one Bucky had let him witness.  And now this.  Even if no one got hurt—Bucky wouldn’t hurt anyone and if he had, he’d be in lockup, not waiting for a ride, he _wouldn’t_ —Bucky’s confidence will be shattered.  He’ll be convinced that he’s a failure, a stain on humanity, just like he is after every setback.

 _Shouldn’t have left him alone_ , Steve thinks, gritting his teeth as he parks the motorcycle.  What if being surrounded by cops sets off Bucky’s Soldier conditioning?  What if he’s cried himself comatose?   _Should never have left him alone_ — 

He throws open the doors and that’s when he hears the shriek.  “Daddy, you can’t step on the floor!”

He stops dead, staring.  Bucky’s crouching on a computer chair—how does he manage to make himself look so small when he’s regressed?—staring at him wide-eyed.  All the cops inside are seated on their desks.

“I—” Steve says, taking another step forward.

“Don’t!” Bucky shouts.  “The floor’s lava!  You’ll get burned up.”  He looks near to tears at the notion.

Great.  How’s he supposed to get Bucky out of here if any movement on either of their parts will lead to hysterics?

“It’s fine, kid,” says one of the officers, dark and grizzled and pushing fifty.  “Captain America’s boots are lava-proof.  Don’t you know that?”

“They are?” Bucky asks, a little less pale.

“Of course.”  It’s another cop now, a woman.  “All Avengers have lava-proof boots.”

So Steve strides forward, giving polite smiles at each ‘Captain America, it’s an honor’ and ‘pleasure to meet you’ that he receives.  “C’mon, Buck, we need to get home.  It’s almost dinner time.”

“But I’m playing.”  Bucky pouts, no trace of tears on his face.  “And we can’t leave when they’re still lava everywhere!”

“Tony can send his suits to help.”  Steve scoops Bucky into his arms before there can be any further arguments.  “Come on, don’t you want to play in the lab?  I know the bots miss you.”

Bucky huffs.  “Fine.  Bye, officers!”

A chorus of “goodbyes” sound in reply as Steve opens the doors.    



	34. It Seems Like a Nightmare

He wakes up crying.

Beside him, the mattress shifts and creaks as Daddy sits up. He tries to be quiet—Daddy needs rest so he can save the world and stuff—but his body won’t listen, his breaths so loud and raggedy. The pillow’s wet with tears and snot. He must have been crying for a long time.

“Hey.” Daddy’s hand settles on his back, rubbing in slow, warm circles. “Hey now. What’s wrong, bad dream?”

“Uh- _huh_.” His voice breaks and his face flushes so red. It’s just a stupid dream. Why can’t he just forget it and lie back down? Why does he have to mess everything up?

“It’s okay.” Daddy’s sitting up now. “It’s all right, I’m here. I’ll turn on the lights, okay?”

“Uh-uh.” They’re in Daddy’s bed and the shadows in his room aren’t as familiar. The dark is never nice, but now it’s extra scary. He can’t help clinging tight, wrenching his eyes shut so hard that a few more tears squeeze out. “Don’t leave me.”

Daddy makes a sympathetic sound, stroking his hair. “I won’t, I promise. Just switching on the lamp on the nightstand, see?” He reaches around and there’s a faint click. A pale glow lights up the space by the bed. “There. You’re fine, you’re safe. I’m here.”

“’Kay.” The light makes breathing a little easier, but his heart is still so fast. “’M sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.” Daddy’s rubbing his back again, rocking him slightly. “Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?”

“It’s too scary.”

“Nothing’s too scary for daddies,” he says firmly, his hand feeling so warm and solid as it moves. “That’s what we do, chase away the things that scare little kids. What happened?”

“I was lost. No—I—I was with you, Daddy. You were holding my hand. But we were in this big place, this cold place, like a desert but all frozen. And we couldn’t find a way out, and I was so, _so_ cold.” Cold enough to cry, in the dream. And the tears had turned to ice on his cheeks.

Daddy pulls back a little, looking so serious. “You’re not in the ice now. You’re here with me.”

“I know!” His breathing had been better, but now there’s hiccupping. “I know! But in my dream, you were there too, and you couldn’t get me out ‘cause we were both all cold! And it was too snowy and windy for me to even see your face, Daddy. So I was holding your hand tighter and tighter but we were walking and walking forever and then I looked and your hand and—an’—” He stops, sobbing, and buries his face against Daddy’s shoulder.

“Shh.” Daddy’s pulling him close again. “You’re safe, you’re always safe with me. What did you see? It’s just a dream—it can’t hurt you.”

“Bones.” It comes out as a sad, choked little whimper. Daddy might not even have heard it. “Your hand was all bones. You were—I was alone, Daddy. I was alone and nobody could wake me up!”

“But you did wake up.” Daddy kisses his forehead. “You woke up and I was here, wasn’t I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I’ll always be here. No silly dream can change that. It doesn’t even make any sense, does it? How can a skeleton walk on its own?”

Pushing away faint memories of a black and white cartoon with skeletons dancing, he wipes his nose. Daddy’s right, just like always. “They can’t.”

“That’s right. They can’t. Just like ice can’t keep me from you, no matter how cold it gets. Okay?”

He nods, forcing down one last sniffle. “’Kay.”

“Good. Now let’s get back to bed.”

Wriggling out of Daddy’s grip, he flips the pillow over to the dry side and settles back down. Daddy’s pulling the blankets back over him when he looks at the floor. “Oh. No wonder you had a bad dream.”

Then Daddy’s reaching over, straining his arm to touch the hardwood. When he sits back up, he’s holding the stuffed bunny.

“Must have knocked him off when you were sleeping,” Daddy says, handing the bunny to him. “Here you go, sweetheart. He’ll help me keep you safe.”

He smiles, squeezing the rabbit tight as Daddy turns off the lamp. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Daddy ruffles his hair before lying back down. “Good night, little one.”

“Love you, Daddy,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.


	35. His Highness The Finest

Thor had a little brother Loki who was an adopted Frost Giant, except he wasn’t actually a giant. Loki got mad at Thor and tried to get rid of him, but it didn’t work and Loki died. Except Loki didn’t really die, and he tried to take over Earth and went to Asgardian prison. But then Thor needed his help to stop bad elves who were trying to hurt Jane and destroy all of the nine realms. So Loki helped save things, and he died. Except Loki didn’t really die that time either, and he was pretending to be the king of Asgard for a while. At least, that’s how Bucky thinks it all happened. It’s kind of hard to follow, and Jane had been rushed when she explained it.

The point is, Thor found out that the king was really Loki, but he found it out because other aliens that Loki used to know are trying to take over everything, and so they need Loki’s magic and knowledge to stop them. So Loki’s here in the tower, and everyone’s mad at him. Clint threw a brick at his head. Bucky’s not sure where the brick came from.

He is sure that Loki brainwashed Clint once, and brainwashing’s unforgiveable. So Bucky’s decided to have nothing to do with Loki the entire time he’s here, which is easy because none of the adults seem to want him around Loki anyway.

Which makes it awkward when Loki stalks into the room where the Bearvengers are very busy storming a castle that is technically a table. The bears can’t possibly leave; the peasants are counting on them.

Loki doesn’t say anything. He just stares out the window. He’s been to New York before, Bucky knows, when he tried to take it over. He wanted all the people to serve him. He also wanted to kill the Frost Giants.

Bucky really doesn’t like people who try and get rid of entire races. He and the bears all agree to ignore the Asgardian. They return their attention to the castle, advancing up the drawbridge in a phalanx formation.

By the time the bears have retrieved the key to the castle gate, Bucky risks another glance at Loki. He’s still staring out the window, hand on the glass. He looks unhappy. Maybe he’s disappointed that he didn’t take everything over.

The bears are having a battle against the evil king’s knights, but Bucky finds himself looking at Loki again. Thor said that Loki gave birth to an eight-legged horse once. Loki doesn’t look big enough for that. Was he a horse the whole time he was pregnant? How long do eight-legged horses take to be born?

“You should avert your eyes from a god, mortal!” Loki snaps, and Bucky flinches a bit.

“You’re mortal too.” Thor said so. It’s just that a year for Asgardians is a whole lot longer than a year for humans.

Loki turns up his nose, looking away.

“Do all the horses on Asgard have eight legs?” Bucky asks.

Loki whirls back to him, fuming. “You dare to mock me? You are beneath me, you sniveling wretch! You’re not fit to wipe my boots.”

“At least I’m not adopted,” Bucky says at Bucky Bear’s suggestion.

The Asgardian’s face goes white with rage. “How _old_ are you?”

“Old enough to know you’re not supposed to be a jerk to little kids.” Bucky turns back to his bears. And Loki _is_ a jerk, but Bucky’s stomach aches at having been so nasty back. He and Steve are both orphans. So are Tony and Clint, and maybe Tasha and Bruce. That was a mean thing to say.

Loki’s turned away when Bucky glances back, muttering to himself in something that’s definitely not English.

“I like your coat,” Bucky offers.

“Spare me your inanities.”

“I liked your helmet too.” Loki had been wearing it when he and Thor first arrived; it was huge and golden. Bucky didn’t understand why they let him come in armor, but Daddy said that Loki could make himself look different. He didn’t really have it with him. “Why does it have horns?”

“Aren’t the children on your world meant to be silent?” Loki demands. He turns to face Bucky, but he’s still scowling.

“Is it true you can make yourself look like anybody?” Bucky asks.

The air around Loki seems to shift, and then it’s not Loki standing there anymore. It’s Daddy, in the old Avengers uniform Bucky’s only ever seen in pictures. He’s smirking in a very mean way and his voice is just like Daddy’s but so cold as he repeats “ _Is it true you can make yourself look like anybody_?”

That’s how Bucky ends up under the castle that’s technically a table, whimpering. The whimpering makes him feel better, but after a minute, Loki’s growling. “Will you be silent!”

Bucky sniffs. Why doesn’t Loki just leave if he hates him that much?

But maybe Loki hates everybody else more. Maybe he’s hiding from the other grown-ups and he’s too afraid to go back into the hallway.

Bucky wipes his nose. “Do you want to play with my bears?”

“Is everything you say exceedingly foolish?”

Bucky emerges from the table, nudging Captain Ameribear a little bit forward. “You can be the king.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Loki looks like he might hit him and Bucky tenses up. “Do not dare insult me again, you little—”

“Or you can be the alchemist.” He pushes Ironbear toward the Asgardian’s foot.

Loki only continues to glare.

*

“And that, child, is how Sleipnir proved himself the swiftest horse in Asgard.”

“Is Fenrir the fastest wolf in Asgard?” Bucky asks, rubbing his eyes. His head is resting on Hawkbear; Loki gave it to him to use as a pillow.

“It has never been tested formally, but undoubtedly so.” It turns out Loki isn’t very mean at all once you call him “Your Majesty” a few times. And he tells really good stories. His voice is nice. “My children are the finest in all the realms in every respect.”

Bucky can’t hold in a yawn. To make sure Loki knows he’s still interested, he asks “What do they call you? How do snakes and wolves and stuff say Mommy?”

“Sleipnir is the only child I bore,” Loki corrects. “The others, I sired.”

Bucky looks Loki over through half-lidded eyes. Does he change between a boy and girl like he changes how he looks, or is he something separate from either? “Do you have special pronouns?” Bucky asks. He stutters a little on the last word because he’s yawning again.

“Pronouns?”

Bucky read about pronouns on the Internet once, an article Crystal had linked on her blog. Some people don’t use he or she, but they, or other words. “Like, what should I call you?”

“Bucky?” That’s his Daddy’s voice in the doorway, concerned. Bucky lifts his head a little to look at him and finds Thor’s beside him.

“Are you all right, dear one?”

“ _Fiiiine_.” Bucky waves a hand at them. “Now, shush, I’m learning stuff.”

They don’t leave, but they are quiet. Except Thor makes a funny cough when Bucky says “Go on, Your Majesty.”


	36. Jack Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "I keep thinking about how Snowflake would react if the commander got blackout drunk and pissed his pants."

The Commander is crying.

He’s slumped on the couch, his face in his hand.  His other hand is holding a can of beer, kind of.  It’s loose in his fingers and looks like it might fall on the carpet.  Bucky does not say that because they’re playing the quiet game.  The rules of the game are that Bucky doesn’t talk and he opens the Commander’s beers.

Bucky’s opened a lot of beers.  Most of them are on the floor around the Commander’s feet.  But the Commander wasn’t crying until this last one.

The Commander hasn’t been happy all night, though.  He smiled when Bucky came in, he patted Bucky Bear’s head, but he wasn’t really happy.  He’s never really happy, but this was even more than that.  The Commander has days like that sometimes, when he’s too upset to even be angry.  Bucky calls them Jack Days.  He’s not sure that it’s always Agent Rollins that the Commander’s upset about, but it seems like a safe bet.  And all of today, the Commander’s been upset and Bucky kept asking if he was okay until the Commander said they were playing the quiet game.

Bucky Bear is worried.  The asset used to see his handlers drunk on some missions, but this is past that.  The Commander hasn’t spoken in a while, but the last time he told Bucky to open a beer, his words were all slurred and very hard to understand.  He’s trembling and his limbs seem too heavy for his body.  The less scarred parts of him are really flushed.

It reminds Bucky Bear of how the asset felt coming out of the chair.

Maybe that’s what the Commander’s doing: using the beer like the handlers would use the chair.  Wiping out his memories through gulps instead of volts.  Like it’ll make him better and HYDRA will want him to lead teams again.  Like it’ll make him forget Jack.

Bucky doesn’t like it when the Commander hurts.

But Bucky Bear says using alcohol like the chair is really dangerous.  It’s bad for the Commander’s body, and the Commander’s already in bad enough shape from his burns and the pills.  He could choke on his own vomit or fall and hurt himself or get really sick if he runs out of beer.

Saying any of that out loud would break the rules of the quiet game, though, so Bucky stays silent.  Anyway, he thinks the Commander’s asleep.

Bucky Bear says they should move the Commander to lie down, be sure his airway will be clear if he throws up.  Bucky’s getting up to do that, but he stops because he steps in a puddle.

There are beer cans all over, and Bucky figures one must have tipped onto its side.  They’re all upright when he looks down, though.  And liquid’s dripping from the hem of the Commander’s pant leg.

The Commander’s asleep—he drank so much—he’s going to be in trouble he’s going to be in _so much trouble_ and then he’ll probably be mad at Bucky for seeing this and Bucky will be in trouble too and he’s frozen there standing in the Commander’s mess and he can’t move he _can’t_.

Bucky’s breathing all harsh and shaky and Bucky Bear isn’t helping because Bucky Bear’s thinking about how long the asset had to sit in the chair before it made him do _that_ and Bucky Bear’s scared too.  Bucky Bear doesn’t want the Commander to be wiped that hard.  It took the asset at least a day to be fully functional again after those wipes, and that was without all the side effects of alcohol.  If the Commander needed to forget that badly, they could have helped him find a chair.

The Commander still hasn’t stirred.  He must be really deep asleep.  Bucky wipes at his wet eyes.  If they can get the Commander cleaned up, get the couch and floor cleaned up, then maybe the Commander won’t be in trouble.  And then they can help him find a chair when he wakes.

But to clean up the Commander, Bucky would have to take off his pants.  That’s inappropriate.  And Bucky Bear’s too small and too worried to do it.

Bucky shuts his eyes tight and tries to be big.

*

With a grunt, Bucky sets Rumlow’s naked ass down in the shower.  How can a body be this much dead weight for a super soldier to handle?

Rumlow’s soaked clothes are resting in the sink; the apartment doesn’t have its own washer and dryer, so Bucky’s going to have to scrub those by hand.  “You better be fucking grateful when you wake up,” he mutters.

When Rumlow doesn’t stir, Bucky goes back to the living room to mop up the piss before it can stain anything.  Thank fuck he forced Rumlow to help him make cookies last week; at least there’s baking soda on hand.  Vinegar too.  Bucky probably grabbed that during one of his shopping trips.  He sets to work on the stains, pausing when he sees the bear.

He looks as worried as a toy bear with only one facial expression possibly can.

“Calm down,” Bucky whispers.  Rumlow may be passed out and reeking of alcohol—must have been hitting the hard stuff before the kid came calling—but Bucky’ll be damned if he risks anyone overhearing him talk to a stuffed bear.  “He’s not damaged, he’s just an idiot.  I can handle idiots, all right?  I used to handle Steve.”

He can remember that sometimes.  Steve never used to hold his liquor well either.

The bear isn’t placated until Bucky carries him back to the bathroom to supervise.

He considers his options, hoping to God that Rumlow hasn’t already developed a rash from the ammonia.  That’s awful enough without adding burn scarring to the mix.  If he turns on the shower, Rumlow might drown or wake up.  And Bucky has no interest in dealing with either CPR or Rumlow’s fragile masculinity, not tonight.  So he makes short work of the ordeal with some washclothes, eyes on the bear and not the body below him.  


Once that’s over, he nearly carries Rumlow to the bedroom.  Guy’s gonna be in hell when he wakes, so he might as well have pillows in his misery.  But if he vomits or pisses again, that’s more laundry to deal with and a mattress besides.  Bucky has protection in his backpack—the kid intended to spend the night—but there’s no way he’s putting that on Rumlow.  No way he’s admitting, however indirectly, that he needs it.  Besides, Bucky  _has_ to stay now to make sure Rumlow doesn’t choke on puke.  If he falls asleep, he’s not going to humiliate himself as well.

So he hauls Rumlow out of the tub, lines the bottom with the man’s towels and a pillow retrieved from the bed, and drops—all right, gently settles—the drunk back into place. The makeshift bed is finished with a blanket on top.

Bucky leaves the now considerably calmer bear to supervise as he leaves the room to change into his pajamas.  He returns with the bed’s second pillow and another blanket he spreads out on the tiled floor, wrapping it around himself like a sleeping bag.

“Keep us safe,” he murmurs to the bear.  The light stays on in case Rumlow wakes and needs to rush to the toilet.  He takes one last glance at the man’s snoring form before he shuts his eyes.  “You’d better appreciate this.”  


*

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Rumlow moans.  It’s probably the next morning.  “I need to puke.”  


“You’re welcome.”  Bucky rolls his eyes.  “Get the fuck out of _my_ way.  I need to shower.”  


Rumlow doesn’t say thank you, but Bucky doesn’t really mind.


	37. The Boy Who Lived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Bucky hiding under a workbench in the lab when he gets scared. Bruce reading to him (and fending off overly enthusiastic robots) until he's okay to come out again."

“Bucky?”  


With a whimper, Bucky curls in tighter on himself.  He’s huddled in the corner under a workbench, just out of reach of Dum-E’s claw.  His nose is runny from tears, his heart is too fast, and he needs a bathroom.

“Bucky.”  Bruce repeats.  He’s coming closer.  Bucky wrenches his eyes shut tight.  “JARVIS said you were—hey, Dum-E, no.  Give him some space.”

There’s a sad sort of whirring, and then there isn’t a robot reaching for him anymore.  Bucky still doesn’t move.

“Hey Bucky,” Bruce says softly.  “JARVIS let me know you seemed scared about something.  Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“I—” Bucky doesn’t know what’s wrong.  He was just playing with Dum-E like he does all the time, but suddenly it had seemed like there was metal all around him, holding him down, and he’d ended up here.  “I d-dunno—I’m sorry, I—”

“That’s okay.”  Chair legs scrape on the floor, but it’s not a chair at this workbench.  Bruce is sitting down at the one across from Bucky’s.  It leaves a Dum-E-sized space between them, but Bruce shoos the robot away when he moves back in.  “That’s fine, Bucky.  Remember what we always say?”

“No one’s gonna be mad at me if I don’t know why I feel how I feel,” Bucky recites flatly, pushing his legs tighter together.  “No one’s going to stop loving me if I can’t answer a question.”  


“That’s right.  It’s okay not to know all the answers.”  


But it wasn’t for a really long time.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Bruce promises.  “And you don’t have to come out until you feel ready.  Do you have Bucky Bear?”  


“Uh-uh.”  He had _dropped_ Bucky Bear while he was running.  He left Bucky Bear behind.  Bucky’s eyes are welling up with tears again.  He’s the worst friend _ever_.  “I—he—“

“It’s okay.  Dum-E, can you bring Bucky Bear to me, please?  And don’t carry him by the ears, okay?”  There’s a clicking, and then Dum-E’s rolling off.  “Thank you.”

When Dum-E brings Bucky Bear back, Bruce gently sets him on the floor and slides him over to Bucky.  “There you go.”

Bucky’s arms dart out, snatching up his bear and squeezing him tight against Bucky’s chest.  “Thanks,” he whispers.  


“Feeling better?”  


“I guess.”  He always feels better with Bucky Bear.  But his eyes are sore from crying, his stomach is all full of butterflies, and he still needs the bathroom.  But moving seems so scary.  


“Want me to come down there with you?”  


“Uh-uh.”  


“Want me to read to you?” Bruce asks, and he’s really good at reading.  


“’Kay.”  


Bruce looks through his tablet in silence for a few minutes.  Bucky starts a little when he speaks again, almost banging his head against the workbench.  He misses whatever title Bruce says, only listening properly once the story itself starts.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect…”

Bruce’s voice is calm and nice, and Bucky can’t help but be caught up in the story.  There’s a cat reading signs!  Why would a cat be reading a sign?  He doesn’t feel as tensed up the more Bruce reads, even when Dum-E tries to poke his claw under the bench again.  He’s not huddled up at all by the time a big man shows up in the book to drop off a baby, except for Bucky’s arms around his bear.  


When the baby grows into a big kid and that kid is talking to snakes at the zoo, though, Bucky _has_ to tense up again.

He really needs the bathroom.  He’s been under the bench for what seems like hours, and he had to go before that anyway.  But he also has to know what kind of boy can talk to snakes, so he stays put.  Good books are more important than bathroom breaks.  That’s probably a famous saying somewhere.

And then Bucky definitely can’t leave, because the book gets really creepy.  The boy gets a letter and Bucky thinks maybe things will get nicer for him, but instead his aunt and uncle take it away.  But more and more letters keep showing up until the house is flooded with owls on Sunday.  The whole family leaves the house, but the owls _know where they’re going_.  Bucky decides he doesn’t like the owls, not even a little bit.  How long have they been following Harry, watching his every move?  He can’t get up now that his mind is full of creepy owls.  So he clings tighter to Bucky Bear, pushing his legs together hard.

Harry and the Dursleys end up at a creepy shack all surrounded by water, and when Harry tries to sleep, there’s a really loud banging.  Bucky thinks of gunfire.  An ambush.  He bites his lip, ignoring the achy need deep in his tummy.  He has to be sure that Harry’s okay.

Then the door crashes open and there’s a giant behind it, and Bucky feels a warm rush in his jeans.

He scrambles up, almost dropping Bucky Bear again— _don’t make a mess don’t be bad don’t make anyone angry_ —but once he’s standing, he feels dizzy from moving too fast.  And his mind is too full of giants and owls and metal restraints to move.

“I—I—” Bucky stammers.  His face is burning and he can’t look up.  Frozen there, staring down at his shoes, Bucky feels another surge of wet, burning heat.  He whimpers.

“I—you’re okay, Bucky.  Here.”  Bruce is talking fast but he doesn’t sound mad. “I’ll take you to the bathroom, okay?  Think you can make it?”

Bucky nods, his eyes shut very tight.  His face is so red.

“It’s okay.”  Bruce’s hand is on his shoulder.  “You can go upstairs and change after, all right?  I can read to you there.”  


“But…”  Dum-E was listening to the story too.  It was his only source of fun because Bucky’d stopped playing with him.  “Dum-E—”

“Then we’ll come back down.”  Bruce’s hand finds his, and Bucky opens his eyes as he’s gently guided.  “Come on, let’s go.”

They mostly make it, and maybe that’s okay, because Bruce doesn’t mind finishing the whole book once they get back to the lab.

But this time with bathroom breaks every other chapter.


	38. Found Wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "What about Steve getting Bucky medically examined after first finding him? And Steve keeps squeezing his hand and reassuring him when he gets tense, but he sees Steve as a handler so he interprets it as reminders to behave?"

The man from the bridge—Steve, he called himself Steve—squeezes the asset’s hand.

The asset takes a slow breath, staring up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.  They are in an examination room, part of a facility much larger than anywhere the asset has received maintenance before.  The man from the bridge—Steve—wants to be sure the asset is not faulty.  He wants the asset to behave for the technicians, but the asset is trembling.

They passed many rooms as the nurse led them here, many machines.  None of them were familiar to the asset.  He is used to the machines at home, and these new ones make his chest go tight.  But this is his home now, if the man from the bridge—Steve—wants it to be.

“It’s all right,” says Steve, giving the asset’s hand another squeeze.  Then he releases the asset so that the nurse can wrap a blood pressure cuff above his elbow.  “It’s not going to hurt you, Bucky, they just want to be sure you’re okay.”

“You’re doing really well,” the nurse says, pressing a stethoscope to the crook of the asset’s elbow.  The nurse is trembling.  Most technicians do the first time they work with the asset.  “All I need is your temperature after this, and then the doctor will be in for the exam.”

The asset feels a churning weight in his stomach. He doesn’t like doctors.

But the man from the bridge—Steve—wants him to behave.

“Blood pressure’s low,” the nurse murmurs.  He releases the pressure on the cuff and then scribbles that onto his clipboard.  

There’s sweat starting along the asset’s hairline. All of this is being recorded. Low blood pressure is not acceptable. Either he will be punished or there will be medications to fix it.  The medications burn when they go in.

The nurse is removing the cuff now, but he’s staring at the asset’s lips, scrutinizing.  “He looks dehydrated.  They’ll probably want to put him on fluids during the debrief—”

“There’s not going to be a debrief.”  Steve’s words are sharp and the asset cannot help but tense.  “He’s in no state of mind for that.”

If the nurse argues, the asset will have to strike him.  But he does not argue, only takes the probe of the thermometer and covers it in a plastic sheath.  “Can you open your mouth for me?”

His temperature, at least, is within acceptable parameters.

Steve has been holding the asset’s hand ever since the cuff came off, but when the nurse leaves the room, he begins rubbing the asset’s shoulder as well.  “You’re fine,” he orders softly, and the asset feels heat to his face.  His new handler must think him so frail, to speak so gently. Or maybe this is the calm before a slap. “We’ll be out of here soon, Bucky. You can get some rest.”

Then this facility must not house the cryostasis tank.  Odd; it is certainly large enough.  Perhaps the security or resources are insufficient.  Then the asset wonders what this doctor will be doing if not prepping him for cryo, and he feels cold enough to be frozen already.  The new machines will likely hurt.

He will endure.  He must, or his new handler—his new daddy—will no longer want him.

When the doctor enters, she is wheeling an IV stand. The asset expects sedatives, nutrients, but as she is placing the port, she explains that it is saline to help hydrate him.  The man from the bridge—Steve—squeezes his hand again as the needle slips in, and the asset tries to make his face go even blanker.  He must be showing fear without realizing, for his handler to act this way. He must be misbehaving.

The doctor shines bright light into his eyes and ears.  She listens to his heart and lungs, takes samples of blood and urine.  She manipulates his limbs to ensure there is no damage to his bones or his muscles.  She says the word “honey.”  She says “Any pain, honey?”

The asset does not understand.  When she repeats herself, he turns to Steve.  He is to be the asset now; he cannot respond to a child’s name.

But Steve nods, so the asset shakes his head. There is an ache down his back and up his neck, all around where the metal arm joins on, but that is with acceptable parameters.  He will not mention it.  And anyway, he is distracted.  If Steve wants him to answer to a child’s name, does he want him to be the child here? To be afraid?

The asset stares up at the lights again. They look sparkling now because his eyes are wet.

“Aside from the dehydration, he seems to be in good health,” says the doctor.  “Much better than I’d have expected, what with how long he’s been on the run.  If you like, we can get a CAT scan ready while he’s talking to Agent—“

“He’s not talking to anyone,” Steve says.  “Look at him.”

A tear slides down his cheek.

“He’s in no shape for that,” Steve continues.  “We’re leaving.”

“We’re not authorized to allow—”

Steve removes the shield from his back.  “Anyone who wants to challenge it can go through me.”

The doctor shrinks away, nods, and hurries from the room.

“Hey.”  Steve is hugging the asset, careful to avoid the line of the IV.  “Don’t be scared, Bucky.”

Bucky.  Not honey. Then he is not to be a child now, probably.  He is disgracing his handler.  He will be cast away, he will be handed off to someone else or dispatched with a bullet between the eyes or _worse_ , he is a failure. The asset opens his eyes wide, refusing to let another tear fall.  He struggles to slow his heart, waiting for the pain.

“You’re fine,” Steve says, repeating the earlier order. “I won’t let them bother you. They can’t keep you here.  You’re going home with me, okay?  You’re safe.  I promise you’re safe.”

A handler should not have to tell him he’s safe. He should be keeping his handler safe. His face is still burning. He hardly feels relief at realizing he will not be discarded.

“Come on, Buck.  Let’s go.”

The asset glances at his IV, but the man from the bridge only smiles and says they can take it with them.  The asset stops trembling once they return to the man’s car.


	39. Maybe It's Maybelline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Most messed up thing ive ever asked, but could you write more about when Pierce was 'experimenting' before he decided to make Bucky act like a kid?"
> 
> **Note:** This is not a nice chapter. It does include depictions of rape.

“You have such beautiful lips,” Pierce murmurs.  


The asset doesn’t understand why his master is spreading paint over those lips then, but it is not his place to question, as it was not his place to question the stockings or the heels.

He thinks he remembers the stockings and heels from before, the pinch of the shoes when he crouched down to suck his master off.  He remembers Pierce thrusting between his legs, and the thin fabric of the stockings had been streaked with come.

But the asset believes the lipstick is new, as is the uncomfortable metal cage locked between his legs.

“There you go,” Pierce says, sliding the cap back onto the tube of lipstick.  “Smile, my darling girl.”

Mechanically, the asset parts his lips and turns his mouth up at the corners.  


And his master smiles back.  For once, it seems real.  The asset’s heart quickens.  Pierce never really smiles at him anymore.

“You have lipstick on your teeth,” Pierce tells him, a laugh in his voice, and he reaches out to wipe it away, staining his fingertips red in the process.  Still smiling, he wipes his hand on a handkerchief, and the asset continues to smile back.  Maybe things will be nice tonight, the way he thinks they used to be.  


But then his pretty red lips end up slammed against his master’s pelvis again and again, spit dripping down on the silken shift he’s wearing.  He is not called a darling girl again but rather several less pleasant things.  And when they’re through, his master isn’t smiling.

The asset wipes the lipstick away.  It stains his hands, vivid and shameful.


	40. Look at Me Way Up High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "i'd love to read about bucky getting to go on some swings/a playground? maybe he goes on a walk with steve after dark and they sneak into the park or something. i think it'd be super cute :D"

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks, giving Bucky Bear a squeeze.  The sign definitely says that the park closes when the sun sets.  Bucky doesn’t even have to sound out any of those words.  


“I’m Captain America, Buck,” Daddy says, smiling.  “I don’t think anyone’s going to mind.”  


Bucky isn’t Captain America, but he doesn’t point this out.  Daddy’s really happy to show this to Bucky, so he’s not going to complain.  And anyway, it’s been forever since he last got to go to a playground.  His last daddy never took him to one, and he thinks this might be the first time since the thirties.

There are slides and there are seesaws.  Bucky remembers being very young and sitting on those once.  Someone had levered his end of the seesaw into the air and kept it that way for a long time.  When he was that little, it had seemed so high up.  He doesn’t think it was Daddy.  He hadn’t liked that, and so he keeps walking.

Then there’s a swing set.  Bucky’s pretty sure he used to like those, but he’s bigger now.  What if the swing can’t hold him?  He won’t be hurt if he falls, but he can’t just break other people’s stuff.  Bucky glances at Daddy, nervous.

But Daddy just smiles.  “It’s okay, Bucky.  You can swing if you want to.”

Bucky’s pretty sure it takes two hands to swing, so he gives Bucky Bear one last squeeze and then hands him to Daddy.  When he sits, the seat rocks a little, but it seems to hold him okay.  He pushes his feet against the ground, rocking the seat of the swing again, trying to remember how swing sets work.

“Go on,” Daddy says, and Bucky swallows.  He doesn’t want to say he’s not sure how to swing, not after Daddy went to all this trouble.  


“Can you push me, please Daddy?”  


“Of course I can push you.”  Daddy doesn’t look annoyed about it.  He moves behind Bucky and then there’s a big push.  Bucky’s shoes drag on the ground at first, but then they aren’t touching the ground anymore, not until he swings back.  


After a few more pushes, Bucky works out to kick his legs out when the swing goes forward and pull them back and up when it goes back.  Daddy pushes the swing hard enough that toward the top, Bucky’s almost totally sideways in the air, but he knows Daddy’s hands and Bucky Bear’s paws will always be there when he comes back down.

The wind that the swing makes blows his hair all around, and Bucky shuts his eyes so they won’t be bothered.  It feels weird, moving this much with his eyes shut, without really doing anything to move himself.  But it’s nice.  It gives him a funny weightless feeling in his tummy that makes him think of the words ‘Coney Island,’ although he doesn’t know why.  It feels like flying.  Like Bucky’s a bird, if there were any birds that flew like this and needed other birds to push him.

For a while he tries to think of what that bird would look like, but then he just focuses on how nice flying feels.  Tony’s flown him around before, but this is different.  There aren’t steel fingers holding tight onto him, there isn’t heat and loudness from Iron Man’s boots.  This is just flying with Daddy’s hands steering him.

Bucky’s smiling at first, then laughing.

Daddy’s laughing when they leave.  “You should see your hair,” he says, giving the bear back to Bucky.

“Sorry, Daddy,” he says at once, reaching up to smooth it.  


But Daddy guides his hand away.  “Don’t be sorry,” he says.  “You’re adorable.  Anyway, Tasha’s going to want to see it.”

Bucky just smiles.  His left hand squeezes the bear and his right hand squeezes Daddy’s.


	41. Side Effects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "I'd love to hear about the side effects that Bucky's medication must have caused him at first (sleepiness, nausea, ,shaking, etc) and how they all dealt with that"

“I can’t get sick.”  Bucky’s whining, he knows, but he doesn’t fucking _care_.  His head is in the toilet.  He’s been here for _hours_ , gagging up the little bits of the meal replacement shakes Steve’s been able to coax into him between vomiting spells.  


Steve’s holding his hair back.  He’s wearing one of Bucky’s shirts because they’re on Bucky’s floor and Bucky puked all over the one he’d been wearing.  “You’re not sick, Buck,” he says softly.  “It’s just the medicine, okay?  They say it’ll wear off in a few days.”

“I don’t want it,” Bucky snaps.  His stomach is already churning again.  “It’s not helping, damn it.”  What difference does it make, being able to tell reality from his nightmares, if he can’t eat?  Which one is likely to kill him faster?  


“It will help,” Steve soothes.  “Your body just needs to adjust.  If it doesn’t stop in a week, they’ll give you something else.”  


A week.  Might as well be a year.  Bucky retches again.  Nothing comes up but acid.

“Here.”  Steve’s trying to give him one of the shakes.  The chocolate one.  Bucky likes that the best.  “We have to try and keep fluids in you.”  


“What’s the fucking point?”  Bucky would throw the stupid bottle at the wall if he had the strength.  “I was better off insane than pathetic like this.”  He’s pretty sure he’s still insane.  Now he’s just equally repulsive inside and out.  


“That’s not true.”  Steve doesn’t sound comforting anymore.  His voice is hard.  


Bucky sighs, taking the shake with trembling hands.  He can’t die.  Steve would never get over it.  And he can’t go completely crazy either, for the same reason.  “I hate this.”

“I know,” Steve says, his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  “I do too.”  


*

Bucky’s hair is in a bowl of soup when he wakes up.

It’s the new antidepressant; he can’t seem to keep his eyes open for more than a quarter of an hour at the time.  He’d been having lunch alone—he has to use special silverware Tony invented lately, because the mood stabilizer makes him shake—and now he’s waking up with tomato paste drying in his hair.

He can probably avoid falling asleep in the shower and drowning, but only if he goes now.

Bucky drops the bowl and special self-stabilizing spoon in the sink, ignoring the way his phone lights up with a new text from Steve.  He hasn’t left the room in three days.

The last time he did, he’d fallen asleep in the penthouse and pissed all over Pepper’s so very soft and so very _white_  rug.

She’d found him after, sniveling as a child, face in his hands, lacking even the presence of mind to clean up after himself and run.  And that, he can’t blame on the drugs, much as he’d like to.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she’d said, kneeling down and letting him sob into her shoulder.  “I know the medicine makes you sleepy.  It was just an accident.”  


And like he hadn’t shamed himself enough, she then helped him strip for a bath.  A bubble bath.  At least she didn’t have any damn rubber ducks around.

 _Maybe,_  Bucky thinks, turning on the shower head, _drowning wouldn’t be so bad after all._

*

“Look on the bright side,” Tony says.  “One of the most common psychiatric drug side effects is weight gain.  At least your metabolism won’t allow for that.”  


“I’d rather be fat than narcoleptic,” Bucky says flatly.  He’d rather be dead above all else.  


“You gotta find the bright side, Stepford.”  


“Take my meds for a couple days and see how optimistic you feel.”  


“At super soldier doses?”  Tony whistles as Bucky finishes the last drops of his fifth cup of coffee since he got to the lab.  It’s not having any effect, but Bruce says placebos can work even if you know they’re placebos.  “I’d be dead after the first round of pills.”  


“Lucky you,” Bucky mutters, standing.  


He gets the door and stops.  He can’t remember now what it is that he was leaving to do.

He tries to think back.  A good thirty seconds later, and it still hasn’t come to him.  Overwhelmed with frustration—so much for the mood stabilizers—he slams his flesh hand against the door frame, a grunt slipping from his lips.

“You break it, you bought it,” Tony cautions.  “What’s wrong?”  


“I can’t remember,” Bucky seethes through clenched teeth.  He’s shaking again.  He can’t blame the drugs for that; that side effect seemed to wear off, finally, two days ago.  


“Hey,” Tony says.  Bucky doesn’t answer.  “Bucky?”  


“What?” he snaps.  


“If you’re forgetting things, you call tell JARVIS to remind you.  I use him as a memo for just about everything, I get distracted so fast.”  


Bucky exhales, the tension draining from his shoulders.  “Thanks, Tony.”

“Don’t mention it.  What’s the point of having all this cool stuff if I can’t show it off?”  


With a little smile, he starts off toward the elevator again.  He still doesn’t know what he was looking for.  Maybe he’ll ride the floors up and down until he remembers.  The drugs fucking suck.  At least the people here help.


	42. Not So Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Does anyone ever forget when Bucky is in his adult mindset and start treating him like a child I.e. Cutting up his food/ trying to hold his hand crossing the road etc?"

“I can feed myself,” Bucky protests as Pepper nudges him toward the elevator.  


“I know that, James.  We all do.  But Tony was so excited to make waffles for you.  Besides, you don’t want us to get a Steve lecture when he gets back, do you?  You know what a mother hen he is.”  


 _He didn’t used to be_ , Bucky thinks.  And back when Bucky remembers trying to mother hen Steve, he’d get a scrawny fist in the face for his efforts.  “Can’t you just have JARVIS spy on me to make sure I’m taken care of?”

It’s the wrong thing to say.  Pepper frowns, but at least she doesn’t lecture him that they’re not like HYDRA.  He knows that already.  He’s known it for ages.  “Please?” she asks.  “You don’t know what it’s like to deal with Tony on your own in the morning.”

So he lets Pepper lead him, pretends along with her that this for her benefit rather than a babysitting job.  He tries not to notice the honey already waiting for Bucky Bear when they arrive at the penthouse.  And when Tony sets breakfast down in front of him, the chocolate syrup on the waffle tracing out the design of Steve’s shield, Bucky manages not to throw the plate at the wall.

*

“So she sent me all these comic books,” Clint is saying as Lucky strains at his leash, eager to cross the road while they wait for the light to change.  “And I was losing it, trying to figure out what they meant—”  


Bucky’s only half-listening.  He was so grateful when Clint asked if he wanted to go for a walk; he had to get out of the tower.  He’d shown up at Bruce’s floor earlier to drop off a book he’d borrowed, and Bruce had immediately flipped the station from whatever documentary he’d been watching—probably something about human rights, knowing his tastes—to something bright and animated and safe.

Sure, it’s to protect Bucky.  He can appreciate that.  But the fact that no one bothers to check his mindset anymore makes him want to scream even now, far away from the tower.

“—and then she tells me it was the order of the comics that was important!  Said the numbers were a code and I’d wrecked it!”  Clint shakes his head, smiling.  “Crazy, huh?”

 “Sounds like it,” Bucky mumbles, which isn’t technically a lie.  


The walk sign flashes and Clint shifts Lucky’s leash to his other hand.  “Here,” he says, reaching out to Bucky.

Bucky fumes.  If he’d let it, his jaw would drop.  Clint was _just talking to him._   Is that all anyone sees when they look at him now?  A crying little baby who needs to be coddled?

“Oh,” Clint says.  “Oh, I’m sorry, man, force of habit—”

Bucky decides he has a new habit, and it’s called walking far ahead of Clint.

“Aw, Bucky, no.”

*

Bucky glances at the time on his phone.  “I should go to bed.”  He holds in a sigh.  Maybe one day he’ll be able to sleep like a normal person and not have to excuse himself to go toss and turn for hours.

Maybe.  And maybe his left arm will grow back.

“Want me to tuck you in?” Steve asks, and Bucky glares, face hot.  

“I’m not five.”

“I know that,” Steve says easily.  “But it might help you sleep better.”

“I’m sick of everyone tiptoeing around me!”  He clenches his teeth.  “I’m not a little kid, Steve!  I’m not gonna cry at the drop of a hat or think the world’s ending because because no one read me a story.  I can cross the street on my own, I can watch grown-up shit without freaking out, and I’m sick of everyone treating me like some kind of incompetent invalid!”

He breaks off, flushed.  There’s a long stretch of quiet before Steve speaks.

“Buck, no one thinks you’re incompetent.”

Bucky snorts, but Steve won’t let him interrupt.  “I mean that.  We just want to be able to take care of you after all that you’ve been through.  We want to make you feel safe no matter what mindset you’re in.  It’s the least we can do.”  


“The least you could do is treat me like an adult,” Bucky snaps, stomping off to bed.  


He won’t let himself cling to the bear, won’t consider the possibility that the shadows on the walls would look less scary if Steve had read to him before the lights went out.

*

Bucky leaves the tower right after breakfast.  He can’t put up with all the coddling, not today.  And that’s never a problem with Rumlow.  Rumlow will treat him like a man and a weapon and he won’t sugarcoat a thing.  Bucky needs that.  He needs it more than he can say.

He enters through the window again, just to get the man good and pissed off.  Rumlow’s not in his living room, though, and he doesn’t come out of the bedroom all indignant.

Bucky thinks he can hear crying down the hall.

“Rumlow?”  


There’s no answer.

Bucky moves to the bedroom door.  “Hello?”

Rumlow’s got his face buried in his hands.  From the movement of his shoulders, Bucky thinks he’s silently crying.  Maybe the pain of the wounds.  Maybe something to do with Jack.  Either way, Bucky doesn’t want to see this.  It’s painful just to watch.  He starts to step back, but only then does Rumlow seem to register his words, whipping his head up.

“Hey.”  He forces a smile, straightening.  Trying to hold onto the last little shreds of his dignity, trying to act like the world still has a place for him.  “Hey, kid.  You want pancakes again?”  


Bucky only nods.  “Thanks, Commander.”


	43. Just Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Can we see Bucky having a panic attack, as child or adult or both, from Bucky Bear's perspective?"

It’s always such stupid things.

Barnes was drinking tea.  One of the asset’s targets, a woman whose name and crimes were wiped away by the chair, had been drinking tea.  She spilled it on herself when the bullet when through her chest.  She’d been wearing a white shirt, and it was stained all brown and red.

And now Barnes is hyperventilating.

It’s _stupid_.  The woman had bled a lot too, but Barnes didn’t panic when Captain Rogers nicked himself shaving this morning.

 _That mission is over,_  Bucky Bear tries to tell him, but he doesn’t think Barnes hears.  His breathing is fast and loud.  Bucky Bear hates it.  It makes his stuffing feel twisted up.  His stomach is nothing but cotton fluff and honey nutrients, but that doesn’t keep it from feeling as though he could be ill.

Bucky Bear tries to think of what the doctors do when Barnes becomes agitated.  He doesn’t like the doctors, hates the way their questions break through decades of training and get Barnes running his mouth like a novice, but they are good at calming him down.  And he needs to calm down.  It’s unhealthy for Barnes’s heart to go so fast and it makes Bucky Bear dizzy.

 _Breathe on a count of ten,_  he says, and after a moment, Barnes does.  His heart is still very fast, though, and it makes the heart Bucky Bear doesn’t have bang around in his chest.  It’s pushing his stuffing all out of shape and he does not enjoy it.

 _If you can stand up, you should wash your face._   Maybe the cool water will help knock some sense into him.  At least it will keep him from overheating.

Barnes doesn’t move.  He shuts his eyes.  He’s still breathing, as Bucky Bear told him, but it’s shaky.

 _Tell the AI that you need assistance,_  Bucky Bear offers.  Barnes probably won’t do it.  He never wants to be a burden.  He seems to have forgotten that malfunctions are to be reported and repaired.

Barnes doesn’t ask for anything, and the bear would sigh if his own breaths weren’t shaky and shallow now too.  It doesn’t matter.  The AI will have noted the increase in Barnes’s heart rate, cataloged it along with all his other failures for everyone to laugh at.  But someone will stop laughing long enough to come in and order Barnes to behave.  In that simpering, soft, foolish way of giving orders.

Bucky Bear’s stuffing feels so knotted up right now that such a thing almost seems pleasant.  He tries to banish the thought, tries to wait it out until assistance arrives.


	44. Everything's All Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude is a follow-up to the last interlude: rather than Bucky Bear witnessing a panic attack from Bucky's adult mindset, he's witnessing it from the child's.

Bucky isn’t crying.

It’s worse that crying.  When Bucky starts to cry, he’ll often stop himself after a few sniffles, because crying is what bad little boys do.  Captain Rogers can say things are different here all he wants, but deep down, Bucky Bear knows that Bucky doesn’t believe it.

What Bucky’s doing now is gasping, quiet and wide-eyed.  The bear can almost hear Bucky’s heart thumping, even though he’s sitting on the table and not on Bucky’s lap.

He should be on Bucky’s lap.  He could help there.

 _Bucky,_  he says instead, trying to sound soft as the lady doctor does.   _Breathe to a count of ten.  Like Dr. Banner taught you.  Stay in the present.  Stay with me._

Bucky tries to talk, but all that comes out is that choking gasp.  He’s thinking about Secretary Pierce; Bucky Bear knows that because he is too.  Thinking about if Pierce came in now, how angry he’d be for how badly Bucky’s behaved.  Failing his mission on the helicarriers, telling the Avengers all kinds of secrets, finding a new daddy, wetting the bed—

Bucky Bear feels like someone’s yanked his stuffing out.  There doesn’t seem to be enough to hold him upright any more, but he can’t let Bucky see that.   _Bucky, listen to me.  You’re having a panic attack.  You’ve had them before, remember?  They feel scary, but they’re not dangerous.  Your doctors said so._

Bucky Bear may not trust the doctors, but he knows Bucky does.  And Bucky likes listening to authority figures, besides.

 _You can hold me if you need to,_  Bucky Bear continues.   _You can squeeze as tight as you want._   He doesn’t say Pierce is dead and can’t get them.  That would further agitate Bucky and anyway, Pierce doesn’t feel dead to Bucky Bear right now either.   _Tell me what you need, Bucky._

“D-Daddy—” Bucky manages.  He’s tearing up now.  


 **I WILL LET CAPTAIN ROGERS KNOW THAT YOU REQUIRE HIS PRESENCE IMMEDIATELY, MASTER BARNES,**  the AI says.

And then there’s a blur of motion before Bucky Bear’s pressed so tight against Bucky’s chest.  He likes the stillness, safe and secured like he’s wrapped in tight, warm blankets.   _You’re doing really well,_ he tells Bucky, because that’s what the doctors would say.   _I’m proud of you._

When Captain Rogers comes in, Bucky’s breathing is more steady.  Both the boy and the bear still get a hug and a kiss.


	45. The Unbearable Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "I loved the interlude from Bucky Bear's perspective! Can we see what he thinks of the Avengers (especially Clint's antics)? I'm curious to see how much he swears XD"
> 
> Thanks to [WritingCyan](archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCyan/pseuds/WritingCyan) for the suggestions for Natasha's section!

“There we go,” Stark says.  He finishes tightening the straps around Bucky Bear’s stomach.  They cut in a little and the device pressed to his back is heavy.  It’s not a familiar, comforting weight; it’s weird.  


“Are you sure this won’t hurt his fur?” Bucky asks.  


Stark doesn’t answer right away, and Bucky Bear feels his nose twitch.  He doesn’t trust Stark’s inventions—he still hasn’t forgiven the man for the time Bucky got stuck to the magnet—and he’s not sure he trusts Stark at all.  He thinks that Stark has been drinking.  And he may still be unhappy that the Winter Soldier killed his parents.

Finally, Stark answers.  “He’ll be fine.  Not a whisker out of place.”

 _Bears don’t have whiskers_ , Bucky Bear informs Bucky.   _And I am not enjoying myself_.

“He says bears don’t have whiskers and he’s not enjoying himself,” Bucky reports.  


“He will be.”  Stark lifts the remote control from the table beside the bear.  “This is all magnetic, kiddo.  There’s nothing in here to hurt bears.”  


At the word magnetic, Bucky shifts his left arm away from the workbench.

Stark laughs.  “Don’t worry, Bucky Bear loves it.  See?”

 _I absolutely do not_ , Bucky Bear begins, but before he can voice his full displeasure, he’s lifting slowly into the air.  Inch by inch, the bench grows further below him.  Bucky Bear’s stomach clenches—he imagines this is how it feels to hang from a plane with no parachute—heart racing, but then Stark does something to the remote and the bear is no longer just rising up.

He’s swooping around the room as though he’s a bird.  Like the Falcon does.  He zooms over Bucky’s head and dives down, nearly skimming the workbench before he pulls back up.  Stark has him keep pulling until he loops in the air.

Bucky is laughing.  It’s…nice, this feeling of weightlessness.  Freeing.  Bucky Bear begins to feel sad that the asset killed Stark’s parents.

Until Stark is opening a window and saying “Let’s check out the range on this thing.”  Then Bucky Bear wishes that Stark had been killed too.

*

Bucky Bear doesn’t like Barton.  He wasn’t a good agent for his first handlers because he allowed himself to be controlled by Loki.  And he wasn’t a good agent for Loki either, because he fought against him.  Clearly Barton is a bad influence and not to be trusted, and that’s without taking into account his dog, who is always trying to slobber on Bucky Bear.

And above all else, Barton is just plain _weird_.

“Aw, shoelaces, no,” Barton mumbles, staring down at his broken lace.  “Bet this never happens to Cap.”

“We grew up in the Depression,” Barnes says.  “You think _laces_  were at the top of our shopping list?”  


Bucky Bear smiles internally because he knows Barnes does not remember where shoelaces factored into his family’s budget.  But he is improvising, making assumptions based on the things he does know.  He’s not exposing a lack of knowledge.  Good.

“These were my favorite shoes.”  Barton speaks as though he’s lost a limb.  


“Hey genius,” says Barnes.  “You know shoes still work without laces, right?  You can buy more of them, anyway.”  


“But these say Hawkeye!”  Barton waves the shoe at Barnes, nearly whacking Bucky Bear with it.  Well, at least it’s not the dog’s tongue.  “They’re special!”

Squinting at laces, Barnes grabs the shoe.  “These say ‘Hawkeyes.’  Like the university team?  These aren’t about you—they’re not even in your colors!”

“You don’t understand my pain,” Barton wails, and then the bastard is grabbing Bucky Bear and burying his stupid face in the bear’s stomach as he lets out loud, false howls.  


 _You are not permitted to spend time with Barton again,_  Bucky Bear tells Barnes, but he gets no reply.

*

Dr. Banner is, after Captain Rogers and JARVIS, the most dangerous person in the tower.  If he wanted to, he could tear Bucky Bear limb from limb, and he wouldn’t strain himself in the least.  Once, Bucky had become the asset in Dr. Banner’s presence, and the asset had to be a very good actor to keep from being locked up or killed.

After that, Bucky Bear decided that Dr. Banner was even more dangerous than previously anticipated, and was to be avoided at all costs lest he begin to think more about the anomaly in Bucky’s behavior.  The bear resolved to be firm on this, no matter how much Bucky begged.

“Bored,” Bucky says, setting down his crayon.  He rolls over on the floor, staring up a the ceiling.  “What do you wanna do, Bucky Bear?”  


Bucky Bear thinks of lying in a warm bed, frightened but soothed with a hand stroking his forehead.  He thinks of a story about a lonely duckling, of drifting off comfortably to sleep.

 _I want Dr. Banner to read to us,_  he replies without thinking.

And the doctor does.

*

“My dear friend!” Thor says, hugging Barnes with a force even Captain Rogers can’t match.  The bear is squished between them.  “How I have missed you!”  


“Good to see you too,” says Barnes, through a mouthful of golden hair.  


 _I want to see his hammer,_  says Bucky Bear as the Asgardian releases them.

“How are Jane and Darcy?” Barnes asks.  


The bear is not interested in Thor’s answer.  He cares about Thor, not Jane or Darcy.  Thor is perhaps the most skilled warrior of the Avengers.  He is rough around the edges and far too independent, but such things can be trained away.

 _I want to see his hammer,_  Bucky Bear repeats.

“And you?” Thor asks.  “Has all been well within the tower?”  


_I want to see his hammer._

“Bucky Bear wants to see Mjölnir again,” Barnes says, finally.

“Does he?”  Thor has a very bright smile as he lifts Bucky Bear from Barnes’s hands.  “Then he shall!”  


Thor puts his hands over Bucky Bear’s paws and places the hammer between them.  Bucky Bear knows that it’s Thor moving it, but he likes to pretend.

*

Bucky Bear didn’t like Natasha at first.

He doesn’t remember much of Department X, but from what he thinks are real memories, he doesn’t recall the Red Room teaching its students to act like children.  It had wanted them to be everything but that.  So to see this woman playing a little girl had felt like a mockery.  A terrible insult, one Bucky couldn’t even see.

Then came the day they went to the toy store.  And the words Natasha had spoken to Barnes after about never getting to have a childhood herself.  And then Bucky Bear thought she might be all right.

Until he remembered she survived him twice.

The bear seethed for days after that.  Barnes had thought it best to avoid Natasha in either mindset, because all Bucky Bear could think of when he looked at her was ways to succeed in his mission this time.

Then he remembered.  Natasha hadn’t been a mission.  At least, not in Odessa.  He couldn’t recall if she was an official mission in DC.  So it wasn’t a failure on his part.  Anyway, Bucky was sad when he couldn’t spend time with Natasha, so Bucky Bear put his misgivings aside.

Until now.

“He eats by osmosis,” Bucky protests.  The bear is fuming, the plastic lid of a honey bottle pressed to his mouth.  


“Not when he’s a baby,” says Natasha.  “He’s too little for that.”  


 _You’ll be sorry,_  Bucky Bear thinks.   _One day Captain Rogers will make you my mission and you’ll be so sorry but I won’t listen.  I’ll watch you writhe and panic on the ground, make you beg for your life.  And then I won’t kill you.  Because you’re not enough of a threat.  Who’ll be the baby then, Romanoff?  Which of us will be weak?_

But he wouldn’t, because that would mean disappointing the Captain.

*

Bucky Bear is a failure.

He tries to be a very good bear.  He is always there for Bucky to hold and he never gets lost.  He takes up very little space and a single bottle of honey will last him for months.  He is very soft and very quiet.  Bucky finds him comforting, and so does Barnes, and comforting is what a teddy bear is meant to be.

But Captain Rogers never acknowledges his performance.  He never says that Bucky Bear is performing within parameters or assigns him a new mission.  He never says that he’s proud or that Bucky Bear is helping to save the world.

Maybe Captain Rogers is a bad handler.

No.  No, he’s not.  Bucky Bear feels sick even thinking such an awful thing.  No wonder the Captain never praises him.

Captain Rogers is his handler.  He answers to the Captain above everyone else, even the voice in the walls.  Captain Rogers rescued him and gave him a purpose after HYDRA and protects Barnes, just as the bear does.  Captain Rogers makes him feel emotions, and he’s never done that before.  Captain Rogers is perfect, and the bear must try harder to please him.

“Star Trek again?” Captain Rogers asks, walking up to the couch where Barnes and Bucky Bear are seated.  Bucky Bear tries to look very soft and inviting as a teddy bear should.  


“I finished the first one,” Barnes says.  “Then Tony told me they made another one in the eighties.  They’ve got a shrink on their ship and everything, how cool is that?”  


Captain Rogers sighs, but he does move around the couch and settle down next to them.  And then, to Bucky Bear’s shock, there’s a hand stroking the top of his head, flattening his ears a bit.

“Who’s a good bear?” Captain Rogers asks, and just like that, his hand is gone.  


Bucky Bear wants to scream.   _What did I do that was good tell me tell me I want to do it again I want to please you again I want to serve you well I want to be good I want you to like me tell me please._

There’s no answer.  Of course there isn’t.

But it helps a little when Barnes places Bucky Bear on the Captain’s lap.


	46. Beary Cuddly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "What are Bucky Bear's thoughts on Falcon and Rumlow?" With bonus Pepper and JARVIS!

Bucky is sulking.

He’s sulking because Thor went back to Asgard and Bucky misses him.  Usually Bucky Bear warns Bucky against sulking because it’s bad behavior, but they’re alone in Bucky’s room now and maybe the AI won’t tell.

Maybe.  Bucky Bear still has to be vigilant.

It’s hard to be vigilant when his stomach is aching.  Perhaps the honey this morning was poisoned.  He is creating a list of suspects with probable motives for poisoning when Sam Wilson comes in.

Bucky Bear perks his ears up, suspicious.  Wilson is another doctor.  He has a way of saying things to Bucky that sound innocent but get him to spill his guts in either mindset.  He’s learned all sorts of dangerous things despite Bucky Bear’s efforts to evade him.

And he always seems to know when Bucky is feeling vulnerable.

“Hey, Bucky,” Wilson says easily, settling down on the bed beside him.  The motion jostles Bucky Bear slightly.  He growls.  “Feeling okay?”  


“Fine,” Bucky says, listless.  He never lets his voice slip into a whine around adults; he won’t risk it.  


“Everybody’s been missing you since breakfast.  Did you need some time to yourself?”  


Wilson always sounds so concerned.  That’s what Bucky Bear hates the most.   _Don’t give him anything,_  the bear cautions.

“Bucky Bear’s lonely,” says Bucky.  


“The other bears aren’t playing with him?”  


“He’s not lonely for the other bears.”  Bucky gives the bear’s foot a squeeze.  


“I’ll bet he misses Thor,” Wilson says, and Bucky nods.  Bucky Bear remains tensed, but not yet in damage control; Bucky is careful to make the information sound as though it’s not about him.  They’re still safe.  


“Thor’s pretty far away.”  Wilson glances around the room.  “But you know what might make him seem closer?”  


“What?” Bucky asks.  


Wilson flips on the special nightlight that Thor and Dr. Foster gave to Bucky for Christmas.  The walls and ceiling are peppered with the red stars of Asgard.  “Does he feel any closer now?”

Bucky considers, tilting his head back for a better view.  “A little.”

“A little,” Wilson repeats.  “Well, how’s this?”  He bends down to retrieve something by the side of the bed.  When he straightens, in his hand is the small replica of Mjölnir that came with Thor Bear.  Wilson puts the hammer between Bucky Bear’s paws.  


It’s not the real thing, but he likes pretending.

“Bucky Bear likes that hammer,” Bucky says.  


“Know what I bet he’d really like?”  


Bucky Bear is not quite listening, still staring at the hammer.

“What?”  


“Having some adventures with the hammer to tell Thor about when he comes back.”  


They have a lot of adventures.  Bucky Bear is far too busy with them to pay any attention to Wilson.  Not until the man picks the bear up, along with the hammer, to carry them down to lunch.

*

“Aren’t you just darling?” Pepper coos, playing with Bucky Bear’s feet.  She does that a lot.  


“He’s a highly trained operative,” Barnes murmurs.  Barnes is fatigued; he woke with nightmares an hour after he’d gone to bed and he could not fall asleep again.  


The asset could go for seventy-two hours without sleep before struggling to keep his eyes open.  Clearly, strenuous training is in order.

“An _adorable_ highly trained operative.”  


Bucky Bear thinks he should eat Pepper for saying that.  But she tells good bedtime stories and she always has nice, new kinds of honey for him when the Avengers go on missions.  Besides, she is one of the few people who can control Stark.

One of the others is Colonel Rhodes, but Bucky Bear isn’t sure what he thinks of a man who willingly puts on one of Stark’s inventions and flies around outdoors.

“He’ll eat you for saying that.”  Barnes rubs at his eyes.  


“He won’t.”  Pepper gives Bucky Bear a kiss on the nose.  Her perfume smells like jasmine.  “Bucky Bear likes me, don’t you?”  


She makes his head nod.

Barnes only yawns, and that makes Bucky Bear feel tired too.

When Bucky Bear wakes up, Barnes is shifting on the couch, checking the cushions and his clothes for moisture.  There isn’t any.  Good.  It’s always hard to remind Barnes to clean up after himself in such instances because Barnes starts breathing fast and tearing up and thinking irrationally.

“Where’d Pepper go?” Barnes asks the bear.  


 **MS. POTTS HAD TO DEPART FOR A MEETING, SERGEANT BARNES,**  JARVIS reports.

JARVIS always hears questions, no matter how quietly they’re asked.  Bucky Bear thinks he can read lips.  He can definitely monitor respiration, heart rate, and even blood alcohol levels.

With HYDRA, they had needed to attach sensors to the asset’s body for readings as detailed as those that JARVIS can provide without touching a person.

Bucky Bear thinks of a computer screen flashing green, a voice that makes his stuffing itch all over.

 _I want to go downstairs,_  he says.  It won’t make any difference, but he needs to move.

Barnes doesn’t argue.

*

The Commander is holding Bucky Bear.

_The Commander is holding Bucky Bear._

Bucky Bear is very still.  He does not want to accidentally claw the Commander.  But he feels as though he’s shaking all over, as though all his stitches may come loose.  The Commander is holding him.  The Commander is pleased with him.

“Are you happy now?” the Commander asks.  


Bucky’s smile takes up the entire lower third of his face.  He nods.  “Bucky Bear likes you.”

“Your bear has a f—a messed up sense of priorities, kid.”

But the Commander is still holding him, allowing Bucky Bear to rest on his lap.  Bucky Bear has never felt so content, so warm through all his stuffing.  He is a good bear.  He is a helpful bear.  The Commander understands this and the Commander will never hurt him or cause him harm.

After all, it would be very foolish for the Commander to dismantle his most useful weapon.    



	47. Accidental Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Because I'm a glutton for punishment, could we see an interlude of when Bucky tried to kill himself by cutting off his arm (or more of that early period in general)? I was rereading the trial installment of APSHDS last night and ow"
> 
> As the arm cutting incident was already beautifully detailed in [WhatEvenAmI's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI) fic [Perfect Little Snowflake](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3527060/chapters/7758347), I decided to write about another incident briefly mentioned in _Blaming the Gun._

The asset steps out of the stairwell.

This floor is a laboratory.  He thinks he may have seen it yesterday, when the man from the bridge brought him to the tower.  Or maybe he is remembering one of his previous master’s facilities.  Or maybe he is dreaming.

He isn’t meant to dream—he is _erratic_ —he needs the chair why didn’t the man from the bridge put him in the chair didn’t he hurt someone yesterday he _needs_ to be repaired—he could damage someone without a mission— 

But all of that is secondary.

What matters now is the wet bundle of sheets in the asset’s arms.

The pants of the thin, strange clothes the man from the bridge gave the asset to sleep in are wet as well, clinging to his skin.  His legs itch with an intensity that borders on pain, but that is not important now.  He must find a laundry room.

The bed and sheets he has soiled, along with the clothing, are allowances from the man on the bridge.  They are to be maintained, used as intended.  They are _not_  intended to be fouled with urine.  The asset must wash them now if he hopes to stay, must scrub the evidence from the mattress.  But he cannot find laundry supplies.

The asset feels unacceptably fatigued, standing there, feels a whimper growing in his throat.  He crushes it down, slowly shuffling forward.  He is in a laboratory.  Laboratories have sinks, surely have soap.  But he _can’t_.  That would be two more things he’s misusing, two more punishments.

The asset has been punished for this before and it hurt so badly and that was as a child what if the punishment is worse for a weapon his eyes are hot with liquid but he can’t cry he’s made enough of a mess— 

The asset whirls around, prepared to run back to the stairwell, but there is a man in the way.

The man looks startled.  He has dark hair on his head and face and bright purple bruises on his throat.  The asset stares.  The bruises look familiar.  The man looks familiar.

Then the asset remembers what he is holding, and his stomach seizes as if to void.  He tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry.  The asset waits to be punished.

“Whoa,” says the man.  “Nice stealth stats you’ve got there, really fits in with your whole Black Death aesthetic.  Not sure whether I should compare you to a ninja or the Phantom of the Opera.  No, wait.  It’d be the other arm if you were the Phantom, wouldn’t it?  All right, ninja it is.  Unless you’ve got metaphor preferences.”  


The asset stares.  He does not think any of the man’s words were an order, but his mind is shaky and too fast, because his body cannot be those things as it awaits punishment.

“Anyway, looking for the laundry room, right?  You could have asked JARVIS, you know, it’d be quicker than searching the tower room by room.  Or did you come here first?  I can put up signs.”  


**I DID TRY TO ADVISE SERGEANT BARNES AS TO THE LOCATION OF THE WASHING MACHINE, SIR,** says a voice from nowhere.   **I DO NOT BELIEVE HE HEARD ME.**

The Soldier cannot keep from visibly starting.  There is a voice in the walls, a voice he forgot.  Watching, recording, reporting back to his handlers, suggesting upgrades, surgical procedures to the arm that make it hurt and the skin around bleed and— 

“Of course he didn’t hear you,” says the man.  “Who hears anything at three in the morning without coffee?  But then, even coffee wouldn’t do it for a super soldier, huh?  That must suck.  Maybe I could design something or, uh, just take pity and inject caffeine right in Cap’s veins.  Or—hey, relax,” he adds, and the asset forces himself to breathe.  “JARVIS isn’t about to go all Space Odyssey on you.  Not even over Cerruti sheets.”  


The asset’s throat tightens.  A "sorry" escapes his mouth before he can stop himself, but then he bites down on his lip. He will not beg.  He will not be weak.

“Trust me, it takes a lot more than that to make him pissy—okay, poor choice of words—you’re looking for the laundry room, right?  Three flights down, first room on your left.  I can call for some extra sheets upstairs while you’re doing that.”

Remaining still, the asset blinks.  He waits for the punishment.

“Yeah, you’re right, might want to have them leave the sheets at the door.  Probably best if the cleaning staff doesn’t come face to face with Tall, Dark, and Brainwashed in the middle of the night.”  


The asset does not understand.

The man sighs, running a hand through his hair.  “Look, you’re harder to read than Romanoff.  I don’t know if you understood a word I just said, and I’m not about to risk another round of breath play by slaughtering your mother tongue, so just follow me, all right?”

As the man leads, he moves quickly, skittishly, leaving a distance between them.  It makes sense.  The asset is soiled.  Why would the man want to touch him before he must to inflict punishment?

In the laundry room, the man opens a closet and pulls out a towel for the asset to cover himself after removing his dirty clothing.  Once the asset is fully covered, he moves to start the machine, but the man has already done it.  Shouldn’t the asset clean up after himself?

“Night, sleep tight, don’t let the octopi bite,” the man mutters on his way out of the room.

There is a sensation blossoming in the asset’s chest, clouding his head.  Confusion.  Why didn’t the man punish him?

He must be informing the man from the bridge of the asset’s misbehavior.  Deferring to the asset’s new master for the appropriate consequences.

The asset returns to his assigned quarters and lies awake on the bed, waiting for the punishment to begin.


	48. The Red Panda Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an interlude for [celestialskiff.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff)

Red Panda is most definitely in a pouncing mood.

The problem is, there isn’t any Bucky Bear around to pounce on.

Frowning, Red Panda sniffs at the air.  Bucky Bear’s scent, like laundry soap and Bucky’s shampoo and a little like Bucky’s new friend Red Panda has never met, is nowhere to be found.

Red Panda begins swishing her tail and tilting her head farther back as she sniffs.  She’s pretty sure doing that improves her sense of smell.  And while she picks up on a lot of scents—the soap on Tasha’s bathroom and running shoes and popcorn and something she thinks might be electricity—there’s no Bucky Bear.

Then she tilts her head back too far and loses balance, tumbling onto the carpet.  Red Panda does a few more rolls to make it look intentional.  And then a few more because it makes the room spin.  Then a few more just because it’s fun, and— 

No.  There can be time for fun after she finds Bucky Bear.  Red Panda stands up, twitching her nose.  If she can’t sniff Bucky Bear out, she’ll have to search for him.

He’s not with the other Bearvengers in Bucky’s room.  And all of them are fast asleep except for Thor Bear, who doesn’t speak any Panda at all.

“Greetings, Friend Panda!” he says, swaying a little.  “It is a shame that you missed our revelries last night!  The bears drank up all of my finest Asgardian mead, but at least you will be spared the headache to befall them when they wake!”  


Red Panda tries first chittering some basic Panda, and then miming.  But Thor Bear only stands there with a confused smile.

When Red Panda paws at Captain Ameribear, he only rolls over.  When she yaps at Bear Widow, the bear doesn’t even move.  And when she nips at Falcon Bear, he mumbles “Five more minutes,” turning his face to the carpet.

It’s hopeless.  Red Panda continues the search on her own.

Bucky Bear is not under the bed.  All Red Panda finds under the bed are some dust bunnies she’s carefully to stomp flat, because Bucky doesn’t like bunnies.

Bucky Bear is not in Bucky’s closet.  All Red Panda finds in the closet are clothes and shoes.  She sniffs at the dirt on a pair of boots for five minutes or so before she remembers the mission.

Bucky Bear is not in the cabinet under the sink where Bucky keeps the pull-ups that nobody’s supposed to know about.  Red Panda is very careful not to leave any panda hairs behind or to move anything out of place.

The search goes on.

Red Panda checks the playroom, but Bucky Bear isn’t under the couch or hiding in the toy box.

She checks the kitchen, but Bucky Bear isn’t snuggled up to any honey bottles.  There is a little splotch of honey on the kitchen counter, though.  It’s tacky, even for honey, like it got spilled and left there for a while.

The laundry room.

Red Panda bounds for the laundry room, readying her body for a pounce.

But Bucky Bear’s sleeping.

He’s damp, lying on a towel.  He always air-dries after he gets a bath in the sink.  He looks a little shivery.

Carefully, quietly, Red Panda creeps up.  She’s never seen Bucky Bear sleep before.  Even at night he’s usually up, guarding to make sure nothing will get Bucky.  He shouldn’t look shivery while he sleeps.

Red Panda grabs a corner of the towel in her mouth and gently pulls it over Bucky Bear.  Then she settles down in the corner, waiting for him to wake up so she can pounce.

At least, that’s what she planned.  When she’s circling around before lying down in the corner, though, Red Panda becomes distracted with chasing her own tail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152680774@N07/35562172560/in/dateposted-public/)


	49. A Happy Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "When are Miriam and Cornelius showing up again, I love these two :)"
> 
> Thanks to [WritingCyan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCyan/pseuds/WritingCyan) for providing suggestions as to the plot of the story!

“I was the Soldier,” Bucky whispers, his hands shaking around Bucky Bear.  “And I— a-and I w-was in the elevator—I was—and—”  


They’re meeting with the therapists, but Bucky Bear knows Bucky isn’t seeing the soft couch he’s seated on or the doctors or their chairs.  He isn’t seeing the conference room that Stark devoted to these sessions.  He’s back in the elevator, in the nightmare, and no matter how soft Bucky Bear tries to be, he’s terrified.

Bucky Bear hates the doctors for making Bucky sad.  He wants to claw their throats.

“It’s all right,” the lady doctor says.  “You can take all the time you need.  And if you’re not comfortable talking about it now, that’s okay.”  


“Dreams can be frightening, James,” says the male doctor.  “But they can’t hurt you once you’re awake, no matter how real they feel.  We’d just like to know what it is that scared you, so we can help you through it.”  


Still shivering, Bucky sniffs, tries to speak again.  “I was the S-S-Soldier and I was—I was in the elevator.  With—with kn-knives.  And I knew I w-wasn’t—wasn’t supposed to h-have them and I w-wanted to ask J-J-JARVIS to call you, but then he t-talked and he s-s-said—he said—he—” 

Bucky breaks off, burying his face in the back of Bucky Bear’s coat.  He’s crying very hard now, almost convulsing with the force of it.  He can’t say that JARVIS gave him a mission to cut the Captain’s throat, can’t say that he was ordered to make sure he finished the job this time.  He can’t say anything but “Please, please” and he can’t even add ‘stop’ to the end of that.

The lady doctor waits until Bucky isn’t crying so hard to speak.  “Are you feeling okay to continue, Bucky?” she asks.  “If you’re not, we can discuss something else, or if you need more time—” 

“I want to!”  Bucky’s straightened up a little, one hand off the bear to wipe at his eyes.  “I do!  I just c-can’t.”  


“That’s okay.  We can return to this topic whenever you’re feeling up to it.  You can even call us if we’re not around.”  


Bucky just sniffles.  Bucky Bear decides eating the doctors right now would only make him cry more.

No one says anything for a minute.  Then the male doctor clears his throat.

“Does your bear ever have bad dreams, James?”  


Bucky Bear feels his stuffing contract.   _No,_  he says forcefully when Bucky looks down at him.  He won’t give the doctors any weaknesses.  He knows better than to let a doctor know what to use against him.

Bucky shakes his head.

“He doesn’t experience the same dreams as you?”  


 _No_.

“He’s too brave to get scared,” Bucky mumbles, wiping at his nose now.  


“Did Bucky Bear have a dream last night?”  The lady doctor is giving Bucky Bear the same affable, open look that she always gives Bucky.  The bear doesn’t trust it at all.  “Do you think you could tell us about his dream?”  


Bucky Bear wants to say no.  He wants to refuse to speak.  But he knows what will happen then.  The doctors will stamp UNCOOPERATIVE on his file and he’ll be a disappointment.  He’ll be in trouble.  And he’ll make the Captain look sad.

 _Just one dream_ , he says.

“He only had one.”  


“Would he like to talk about it?”  


Bucky Bear has to talk about a good dream.  He must.  But he doesn’t know what a good dream is; Bucky’s dreams are all full of blood, death, and bunny rabbits.  He doesn’t know how to tell a happy story.

Bucky Bear tries to think of something that makes him feel pleased.   _I’m shooting_.

“He’s shooting in the dream,” says Bucky, and only then does Bucky Bear understand his mistake.  Bears don’t shoot people.  Children don’t either.  


“Shooting?” says the male doctor.  


 _Arrows_.  Bucky Bear speaks quickly.   _With a bow.  With Barton.  At a range._   That’s innocent, isn’t it?  Barnes is allowed to do that.   _And then everyone has cookies_.

“Who else is with you, Bucky Bear?”  The lady doctor isn’t writing anything down.  Bucky Bear’s almost relieved until he remembers the tape recorder.

 _Everyone,_  he repeats.   _All the bears and Barton and Romanoff and Dr. Banner and Wilson and Stark and Hill and Pepper and Happy and Bucky’s sisters and JARVIS and the Commander and P—Capta—Daddy.  And Crystal.  And her cat.  And everyone has honey cookies and everyone likes them_.  


The male doctor pushes his glasses up on his nose.  “Do you call Steve Daddy too?”  


Bucky Bear feels sick to his stuffing.  He shouldn’t have said that.  He’s not a child.  That was wrong and will be noted.   _He’s Bucky’s daddy._

“What would you like him to be for you, Bucky Bear?” the lady doctor asks.  


 _Everyone eats cookies and then we play with Crystal’s cat and nothing bad happens_  is all Bucky Bear will say.  He thinks maybe he should not have said the last part.

“James has mentioned that sometimes Steve and Commander Rumlow argue,” says the male doctor.  “How did they interact in your dream?”  


Bucky Bear should say they got along.  But he can’t imagine the pair ever getting along.  And don’t these doctors answer to Captain Rogers?  Captain Rogers does not want to get along with the Commander.  Bucky Bear could be in trouble if he says so, disloyal.

 _I—_   He doesn’t know what to say.  If he says they fought, it won’t be a happy dream.

“Bucky Bear?”  


 _I don’t remember.  I don’t remember the rest._   He isn’t sure if the doctors are suspicious.  They’re always so hard to read.

“That’s all right.”  The male doctor pushes his glasses up again.  “It’s hard to recall all of a dream once you’ve been awake for a while.  Are there any other dreams you’d like to discuss?”  


 _No,_  Bucky Bear says immediately.   _I don’t remember anything else._

He thinks the doctors might glance at each other, but he can’t be sure.  He’s trying very hard not to stare.  Bucky Bear can’t afford to raise suspicions.

“Well, thank you for sharing with us, Bucky Bear,” says the lady doctor.  “It’s always nice to hear from you in our sessions.  If there’s anything else you’d like to talk about, in this session or any others, just tell Bucky, all right?  He’ll let us know.”  


Bucky Bear nods, but he won’t ever speak again unless they prompt him.  It’s too dangerous.


	50. There Was a Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Little Bucky whispers a "once upon a time story" to Bucky Bear or one of the Bearvengers."

They’re alone.

Bucky squeezes onto Bucky Bear so hard that his knuckles turn white, but only on the right hand.  He doesn’t think the knuckles on the other hand can go white.  He’d have to squeeze really hard to make that happen, and he doesn’t want to hurt Bucky Bear.

Bucky Bear’s the only one left.

Daddy and all the other Avengers are on a mission.  They’ve never all left before and ever since they did, it feels like something’s been squirming around in Bucky’s stomach, scratching at his throat to get out.  He can’t be sick when Bruce isn’t here.  That would be inconsiderate.

Bucky’s doctor was here this morning, and Bucky was so upset that he actually talked to him.  He’s never done that before.  He knows Bucky Bear’s worried because Bucky couldn’t hide how much he missed Daddy.  Now the doctor knows how to make Bucky sad and sick.

The doctor’s gone now.  JARVIS is still everywhere, but he’s not saying anything.  And Pepper was supposed to read them a bedtime story, but it feels like he’s been waiting _forever._   She probably has more important things to do.  Or maybe she just doesn’t like him anymore.

Bucky squeezes his bear again.  He can’t sleep without a story, not when they’re all alone.  It’s hard enough to sleep with a story and with Daddy in the tower.  But his mind’s too full of worry and loneliness to remember any stories, and his bookshelf is too far away.  It feels like if he steps out of the bed, the floor will suck him up and lock him away in Nowhere, just like Daddy and Tasha and everyone else seems to have disappeared to.

He looks at Bucky Bear, but Bucky Bear doesn’t know any stories either.

Bucky shuts his eyes tight, trying so hard to remember.  Now it feels like the thing from his stomach is scraping inside his head.

“Once there was a little boy,” he says.  Maybe that’s not right.  “Once upon a time.”  


Bucky Bear does not offer any literary criticism.

“Uh.”  Bucky swallows.  “The boy was really pretty and brave and strong, but nobody noticed ‘cause he had a bad friend who took all the attention.  His friend made the boy help him make problems for all the grown-ups in the town who wanted to make sure everybody was safe.”  


He thinks this is right.  Bucky Bear isn’t interrupting.

“One day, the bad friend got the boy in really big trouble, so bad the boy lost his arm, and his friend just ran away and—”

“I’m so sorry I took so long, Bucky,” Pepper says, making Bucky jump.  “I was on my way here and then I got an emergency call and I couldn’t get a word in or even get the chance to tell JARVIS to tell you I’d be late, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ‘kay.”  Bucky’s not holding the bear as tightly now.  He can’t remember the rest of the story anyway.

“Do you still want me to read to you?  Or should I just tuck you in?”  


“Can you read Sleeping Beauty?” Bucky asks.  


“Of course I can, sweetheart.”  


Bucky Bear protests a little, curious as to where Bucky’s story was going.  But Bucky doesn’t know, and he has the feeling that Sleeping Beauty’s better anyway.


	51. You Are the Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Could you write more about Steve struggling in the beginning to be a good daddy?"

“Daddy?”  


It’s—Steve’s eyes are too clouded with sleep to make out the numbers of his alarm clock.  It’s early.  Too damn early to be awake.  Which he’s not, really.  Give it half a second and he’ll be dead to the world again.

“Daddy?”  


Something freezing brushes his shoulder, and Steve rolls into the warm refuge of his sheets, tensing up.  “Go to hell, Buck,” he mumbles, only slightly more conscious now.

It isn’t until he hears the whimper that Steve realizes his mistake.

 _Fuck._   He’s awake now, bolting upright.  

Bucky’s standing at the side of the bed, drawing his metal hand back, eyes glistening in the dark.  His hair looks wet.  “’M sorry, Daddy.”  Bucky’s voice is rough, as though he’s been crying for a while.  And if he was upset enough to come to Steve even after he’d showered and taken his sheets to the laundry, well, he’s _definitely_  been crying for a while.  “I won’t bother you again, I’ll—”

Steve grabs hold of him, hauling Bucky onto the bed in a fierce hug.  “No,” he mumbles against Bucky’s hair, shaking his own head to clear it.  “No, you’re fine.  You’re okay.  You’re not bothering me, Bucky, I just wasn’t awake.”

Belatedly, he realizes that he shouldn’t have grabbed Bucky that way.  God only knows how many times HYDRA manhandled him, or _Pierce._   Steve can imagine what his friend now associates beds with, and he stiffens, pulling back.

That only provokes another sniff from Bucky.  “I shouldn’t have woken you up.”

Steve grits his teeth.  It’s not—he’s not mad at _Bucky._   None of this is Bucky’s fault.  But this _thing,_  this sick joke of Pierce’s, leaves Steve floundering, scrambling for footholds that disappeared long ago.  If he touches Bucky now, he’ll make his friend think he wants a blowjob.  If he doesn’t touch him, Bucky will feel hated.  If he jokes with him, it’ll go over his head, but if Steve is straightforward, Bucky will feel like a burden.

Steve hates this.

“Sometimes kids wake you up,” he says, as if he’s not speaking to a man a year older than him; though, what with Steve’s two years out of the ice before Bucky was free, is he the elder of the pair now?  “It’s no big deal, Bucky.  It’s okay.  You can wake me up whenever you need me.  B—uh, Bucky Bear used to do that when he slept in my room,” Steve adds, just now catching the silhouette of Bucky’s teddy in the dark.  “Right, Bucky Bear?”

He can barely make out Bucky’s face, but what he sees looks dubious.  


“Bucky Bear says yes,” Steve says, trying to sound firm, knowledgeable, the way he remembers Bucky’s father used to sound when Steve stayed over for dinner.  


Except he’s not sure if Bucky even remembers his real father now.  Maybe the only memories he has left of any parent is the abuse his sick fuck of a _Daddy_  forced him to crave.

“I—” Bucky begins.

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s.  The metal one.  It seems almost painfully cold, but he can’t draw away.  Can’t let Bucky feel rejected after he’s already shied from his friend twice.  “I promise,” he says.  “I don’t mind.  What’s wrong, bad dream?”

 Bucky nods, setting Bucky Bear down on the bedspread just long enough to wipe at his nose.

“Was it HYDRA?” Steve asks, kicking himself mentally right after.  Great job, Rogers.  Real smart.  If Bucky wasn’t already panicking at the thought of HYDRA stealing him away in the night, he will be now.  Great.

He used to know how to talk to Bucky.  What to say to make him smile when he was fuming or to pull him out of a slump.  Steve used to know when to shut the hell up and just let Bucky feel.

But the man he knew died in a ravine in the Alps.  And he doesn’t love the new Bucky any less—even this side of him that makes Steve want to retch at Pierce’s perversions is still something worth holding onto forever—but he has no idea how to help him.

Even when Bucky was a kid, he wasn’t this.

“Uh-uh.”  Bucky’s voice shudders like he’s holding in a sob.  


Steve’s free hand jerks to rest on Bucky’s shoulder before he thinks of how the touch could be interpreted and pulls his arm back.  Bucky flinches, maybe feeling rejected or maybe expecting a blow.

 _What would Erskine say if he saw you now?_  asks a voice at the back of Steve’s mind, a voice achingly close to the Bucky he used to know.   _Called you a good man, didn’t he?  You couldn’t keep me from falling and you can’t even comfort a little kid.  Surprised you didn’t make the tots cry when you used to sign their comics_.

Steve’s teeth are grinding again.  He forces his jaws apart before Bucky can notice the sound.  “Do you want to tell me what you dreamed about, Buck?” he asks.  “You don’t have to if it’ll make you upset.  Whatever you want.”

“I couldn’t,” Bucky says, small and shaky.  He cuts off, pressing the bear to his cheek.  “I c-c-couldn’t—I was l-lonely and looking all o-o-over an’ I c-c-c- _couldn’t_!”

“Couldn’t what, lamb?”  The second he’s said it, Steve curses in his head, a flush burning in his face.  That’s what Steve’s mother would call him when he was all worked up, but he has no idea what words Pierce used to whisper in Bucky’s ears as he was abusing him.   _Violating_  him.  Steve’s stomach flips every time he thinks of the things Pierce might have done, the things he might inadvertently repeat.  


“Find Daddy.”  The words come out in a sudden rush of sound; Bucky never cries in front of Steve—he doesn’t want to be a _bad boy_ —but sometimes he can’t keep from hyperventilating.  “I c-couldn’t find him and I miss him and—a-and—”

Bucky clamps the flesh hand against his mouth, the bear falling to the bed again.  In the dark, Bucky’s eyes are wide, horrified.  He’s trembling.  The only still part of him now is the metal hand below Steve’s.

The worst part is knowing that Bucky’s not so stricken because he’s realized the monster of a man that he’s pining for.  No, the worst part is knowing that the shaking is because he expects his new daddy to be jealous.  To punish him.

Steve’s aching with the need to hug his friend, almost shaking himself.  But he can’t.  Digging the nails of his free hand into his palm, Steve tries to think of something, _anything_ , that Pierce can’t have ruined.  And he finds it, clearing his throat.  Bucky starts at the sound.

“ _Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh_ ,” Steve sings softly.  A tune from his mother, words he didn’t realize he remembered.  “ _Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór._ ”  


For all else that Pierce has ruined, he didn’t speak Irish.

Bucky tilts his head, listening to the words intently, tense all over, as though he thinks he’ll understand if he pays enough attention.  Bucky never picked up more than a handful of words in Irish, and Steve nearly tells him that, but he doesn’t want to stop the song, not now that it’s made Bucky’s breathing steady.

By the start of the second verse, Bucky’s a little less rigid, retrieving his bear from the mattress.

When Steve starts the song again, Bucky very slowly creeps forward and settles himself onto Steve’s lap.

Steve swallows back a wave of nausea, fighting down the memory of the last time he and Bucky were on a bed and Bucky moved toward his crotch.  It’s innocent now.  Steve has to believe Bucky isn’t thinking of the way things were with Pierce, or his skin will never stop crawling.

So he squeezes Bucky’s metal hand and keeps singing until his voice is gone, the sky is rimmed with pink, and Bucky’s fast asleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Steve sings to Bucky is the Irish lullaby, [Seoithín, Seo Hó.](http://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=3482&c=68)


	52. An Unbearable Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "An interlude from Bucky Bear's perspective during the trial, from inside Maria's purse?"

Maria’s purse is roomy and dark.  It’s very orderly.  Bucky Bear is lying on top of a wallet.  There’s a checkbook to his left and a small package of tissues on his right.  There aren’t any tangled charge cords winding around him or loose receipts brushing his face.  There aren’t any coins banging into him.

There is a tube of lipstick at his feet, and even though it’s firmly capped and so unable to stain his fur, Bucky Bear still doesn’t like it.

But he likes the purse.  He wishes Bucky could fit in here with him.  It’s quiet and calm; all the noises from outside are muffled and not so loud.  It would be easier for Bucky to go past the screaming bystanders in front of the courthouse if he were in the purse, Bucky Bear thinks.

But he’s not, and Bucky Bear can’t be out of the purse while court is in session.  Maria says that the media and the judge won’t understand that Bucky Bear is a highly trained operative who assists Bucky.  She says they’ll think he’s a cheap trick to gain sympathy.

Bucky Bear’s nose twitches.  He’s not a cheap trick.  He’s a special and important bear, and when Maria wouldn’t let Bucky bring him yesterday, Bucky got very ill.  So today Bucky Bear is in the purse to provide moral support during the recesses.

They’re in the courtroom now; Maria sets the purse down on a table.  Bucky Bear can hear a lot of voices, but they aren’t screaming anymore.  It would be interesting to look around.  Bucky Bear hasn’t been outside of the tower ever that he can remember.  And when the asset was around other people, he was always very focused on missions.

Bucky Bear needs to focus on his mission.  His mission is being a good bear and staying in the purse until Bucky needs him.  His mission is not looking around.

He hears someone say “All rise,” but it’s not Bucky’s voice, so he does not move.

Bucky Bear lies very still, listening.  He thinks the prosecutor is talking.  It sounds like the man is going into graphic detail of one of the asset’s messier missions, as if to prove that the asset was enjoying himself.

Bucky Bear thinks that Bucky needs him now, but he stays still.  His stuffing feels all twisty, as though he’s already messed things up.


	53. I Have the Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "I'd be cool to read more from Steve's perspective as a "parent" - maybe he's picking up something for bucky (sippy cups or toys or something) and a fellow customer/Cashier who maybe doesn't recognise him as captain america asks him about his kid, how old he is, has he started school yet etc....or for advice about their kid (since they assume he has one)? And Steve navigating that conversation?"

Steve doesn’t understand how Bucky and Natasha can run out of modern cartoons to watch, considering there’s a whole channel for nothing but animation these days.  And he really doesn’t understand why, out of every old cartoon at their disposal, they’ve taken up He-Man and She-Ra.

In Steve’s day, cartoons actually _moved_.

But for the past week, every other word they’ve said has involved “the power of Grayskull” or “Orko” or “Skeletor.”  And sure, it’s mildly annoying, but at least Bucky can sit through a show with a skull-faced villain and not have nightmares about it.  Steve figures that’s the sort of thing that should be encouraged.

Encouraged with a pair of foam swords, because last time they were playing Masters of the Universe, they were swinging around actual sparring equipment.

Every last sword in the girl’s aisle is a vibrant pink.  Steve’s standing there, trying to decide if Natasha would consider that cute or if she’d smack him in the face with the sword as soon as he handed it to her.

“Least they’re not covered in glitter,” someone mutters.

Steve turns his head.  There’s a man standing in front of the Barbies, glancing Steve’s way.  He looks deeply uncomfortable.

“I’ll never understand who thought it was a good idea to coat toys in that stuff,” Steve says, thinking of the time it took to vacuum up Bucky’s arm after the glitter-bombing.  


“Somebody without any kids to clean up after,” the man says.  “How old’s your girl?”  


“Oh.  Uh, no, she’s not—she’s—uh, my niece.  She’s my niece.  She’s, uh, seven.”

“So you can check out of the tea parties and fashion shows whenever you want.”  The man shakes his head, but he doesn’t sound truly bitter.  “Or do you have any of your own?”  


“I…have a boy.  He’s five.”  Steve’s never said it that way before.  It’s strange forming the words, like he’s trying to speak a different language, but it feels true nonetheless.  


Now the man looks faintly envious.  “Three girls,” he says.  “The only time they don’t want something pink and sparkly is when they’re playing Black Widow.”

Steve can’t help but smile.  “My son’s wild about the Avengers too.”

“I could _kill_  Tony Stark for putting out merchandise.  The girls’ Christmas lists threatened to bankrupt us.  What’s your boy into?  Iron Man?  The Hulk?”  


“Disney princesses and teddy bears, mostly.”  Granted, those teddy bears are playing Avengers most of the time, but it’s probably best to keep the attention off Captain Ameribear if Steve doesn’t want to be recognized.  


It’s not quite a double take, but the there’s a hint of tension in the stranger.  “You don’t worry about the other kids giving him shit?”

Steve thinks back to the Barnes family reunion at the zoo, the crowd of children gathered around Bucky.  “Other kids seem to love him.”  He shrugs.  “I figure, what’s the use in worrying about appearances?  I just want him to be a good man, and he is.  Uh, will be.”

He receives a nod.  “I love my girls.  Just, sometimes their interests drive me up the wall.”

Steve thinks of lazy 1980s animation and nods.  “I think we’re all in that boat.”


	54. In Their Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Bucky Bear and Toothless hang out together"

The dragon sat opposite Bucky Bear on the table.  Bucky and Freddie had left them there while she was showing Bucky her bedroom.

The dragon was staring at Bucky Bear.

Bucky Bear wondered what dragons ate.  It probably wasn’t bears, but for safety’s sake he needed to establish dominance.

“I am the world’s most skilled assassin,” said Bucky Bear.  “I can put a bullet through a target’s eye from two thousand meters away.  I have a close working relationship with the Avengers and I help develop their security systems.”  


The dragon appeared to be considering this.  He did not look especially intimidated.  “You can’t shoot a gun,” he said finally.  “You don’t have fingers.”

“You don’t have teeth,” Bucky Bear retorted.  


“Your nose is red.”  


Bucky Bear decided that was enough conversation for the day.


	55. Hippity Hoppity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Could you write a story where Snowflake is asked to play pretend with the Rabbit?"
> 
>  **Warning:** This story takes place immediately following a sexual assault, which is referenced but not overtly described.

Daddy is panting very hard.  His face looks red.  This is probably how he usually looks once they’re done playing grown-up games, but it’s hard to remember.

“Are you okay?” he asks.  Daddy has to be okay.  He has to be around forever.  Didn’t he promise that a long time ago?  


“Fine, sweetheart.”  He still sounds out of breath, but not as much.  “Just…play with your bunny for a little while, would you?”  


He doesn’t want to leave Daddy’s side, but Daddy won’t feel any better if he’s being disobedient.  So he slides off the bed, picking up the rabbit where it sits, slumped against the wall.  Its ears are drooping all the way down to its feet.

“Hop,” he says very quietly, moving the bunny along in a bouncing fashion.  Up and down across the floor.  “Hop, hop, hop.”  


The bunny isn’t hopping on the floor anymore.  He’s in a field.  He hops until there’s a desk that can be a mountain or something in his path.

On top of the desk are a lot of pens.  He places them carefully between the bunny’s paws.  Slowly, he hops the rabbit back over to the bed, careful to pick up any pen that slips out of the bunny’s grip.

“What’s this?” Daddy asks, once the rabbit sets the pens on the pillow.  He’s smiling a little now, breathing easier.  


“The purple flowery parts of clovers.”  Rabbits eat clovers, don’t they?  


“And your bunny’s going to eat them?”  


“He already ate the green parts.  The flowery stuff’s the best part, so he brought it back for his daddy.”  


Daddy hugs both him and the bunny very tightly, the clovers forgotten.


	56. Dressed for Success

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "If you are still taking requests.. I love that Bucky has Ironman and Captain America PJ's Do you think you could do something with Bucky having Bucky Bear PJ's?"

Bucky Bear is frowning.

“You don’t like them?” Bucky asks.  Bucky Bear doesn’t like a lot of things.  He’s usually too busy keeping everyone safe to enjoy himself.  


Bucky Bear only continues to frown.

“Aw, c’mon,” Bucky gives the bear’s foot a squeeze.  “Tony had this fabric special made in your honor.  Why do you have to pout about it?”  All the little Bucky Bears in the flannel look very dignified and professional.  Well, except the sleeping one.  “And look at this!”  He pulls up the hood.  “Bear ears and everything!”

Bucky Bear doesn’t enjoy the thought of his likeness being spread around, apparently.

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “You know Bucky Bears were mass-produced, right?  I’m pretty sure there’s even a Christmas special with ‘em.”

Bucky Bear resolves to ignore Bucky for the rest of the night.

“Whatever.  I’m telling Tony you love it.”  



	57. Pool Safety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "interlude of a time at the pool with everyone and snowflake?"

“Are you sure it’s waterproof?” Bucky asks.  He’s sitting at the side of the pool, swishing his legs back and forth in the water.  


“Am I sure?”  Tony scoffs.  “Me?  Tony Stark, the greatest inventor in the history of time and creation?”  


“That guy at my trial said he was the greatest inventor,” says Bucky, but he wrinkles his nose as he says it.  


“ _That_  is because Reed Richards is sadly—hilariously—delusional,” Tony informs him.  He settles down next to Bucky, placing his Beary Cozy Pool Float—patent pending—between them.  It’s big enough for Bucky Bear to stretch out comfortably, it’s self-cooling, and it has transparent sides to shield him from splashing in addition to a little canopy on top for shade.  


It’s brilliant, in all respects.  If only the little bear wasn’t so neurotic.

“See?  It’s even got a little cup-holder for his honey.”  


Bucky glances at his bear.  Whatever conversation is happening in the kid’s functional but fried brain doesn’t seem encouraging, judging from his expression.  And usually anything Tony invents, whether it works or not, is met with fevered enthusiasm from Bucky.

Damn bears, ruining his moment.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony says.  “Trust me, wouldya?  My ego’s starting to feel a little bruised here.”  


“A little?”  Bruce arches a brow, gliding past them in the water.  


“When I want your opinion, I’ll have JARVIS send for you.”  Tony turns back to Bucky, giving him the puppy-eyed stare that always fails with Pepper and Steve, but can probably guilt a five year old.  “Come on, when have any of my inventions ever gone wrong?”  He splashes in Bruce’s direction at the inevitable snort.  


“Uh.”  Bucky looks down, stilling his feet.  “There was the time I got stuck to the magnet.”  


“Exception that proves the rule, tiger.  Just give it a test run?  Think of all the stuffed animals that can use it to go swimming with their kids everywhere the world once we’ve tested it out!”  


Bucky gives his teddy bear a hug before placing him in the float, like the little toy’s about to go on a mission to the moon.  Tony could definitely send a teddy bear to the moon, but Bucky would probably cry, and he couldn’t stand to see that.

“Bon voyage!” Tony proclaims, leaning forward to set the float in the water.  


Bucky’s hand grabs his arm.  “Wait!”

“What, you wanna smash a bottle of wine first?  I don’t think that’d be the best for the float or the water, Bucky.”  


“Bucky Bear wants to know if there’s leeches in the water.”  


“Leeches?” Tony repeats.  


“He doesn’t like leeches.”  


“Kiddo, there are no leeches in this water.  Chlorine’d kill them.  Promise.”  Tony even opens up the float to shake Bucky Bear’s little paw as a sign of sincerity.  


Bucky hesitates, but then releases Tony’s arm.  “’Kay.”

Tony sets the float on the water.  Bucky Bear bobs gently over the ripples.  No water touches him.  And no leeches either.

“See?  He loves it.”  Tony slides into the pool himself.  “Bet I can get to the other side before you can.”  


But Bucky doesn’t lower himself to the water, biting his lip.  “Are there sharks?”

“Of course no—”

And then there’s a shadow cast along the wall of the pool, gliding behind Tony.  A shark’s fin.

Bucky’s already shrieking and running for the pool net to deliver a vicious shark beating by the time Tony turns around and sees Clint snorkeling along with the damn fin.  


He’s pretty tempted to just let Bucky whale on the dumbass.


	58. The Dreams In Which I'm Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "If you're still taking requests for interludes, and if it strikes your fancy, I think it would be terribly depressing and also amazing if you wrote something about Steve waking up in the middle of the night with Bucky Bear pre-Winter Soldier."

Bucky’s falling, screaming, but Steve grabs hold of his wrist.  The weight feels as though it’s ripping his arm off, even though it should be no trouble anymore, not with the serum.  He can’t haul himself back into the train, let alone Bucky.  His nails are digging into his friend’s skin, blood trickling down Bucky’s arm.

“I’ve got you,” Steve promises.  “You’re safe.  I won’t let you go.”  


But then it’s not Bucky he’s holding, but Peggy.  The life is draining from her face, the color leeching out of her hair.  Her arm becomes nothing but bone and flesh as thin as onion skin, veins bulging and rolling under his fingertips.

And then she’s falling.  They’re both falling, crying out for him to save them, but try as he might, Steve can’t fall with them.  He’s stuck, pinning by the glove on his hand snagged against some jagged piece of metal.  No, not metal.   _Ice._   

There’s ice and the ice is spreading all around him, immobilizing his limbs, clouding his eyes, filling his nose and throat and lungs—

There’s something warm in his arms when Steve wakes, and that helps to pull him back to reality.  A bedroom.  The Stark Tower.  There’s no ice.  Not even a hum from an air conditioner.

With a sigh, Steve sinks back into his pillow, trying to ignore how soft, unstable, the mattress feels beneath him.  He turns his attention to the warm thing in his embrace.

The Bucky Bear.  That damnable toy Stark tracked down to mock him, because that isn’t salt in the wound in the least.

“Hey, little guy,” Steve whispers, too tired and terrified to care how ridiculous he sounds, talking to a teddy bear.  “You’re okay.  I won’t let anything happen to you.”  


The bear just stares, of course.  Stares with glass eyes glinting slightly in the dark, framed by a black leather mask.  Bucky never wore a mask like it.  Not when he was falling and not on any mission before that.  Steve can’t say why, but somehow that makes it better.

“Tell Stark about this,” Steve murmurs, the way he used to talk to Bucky, “and I’ll kick your ass.”  


The bear is still and warm as he tries to fall back asleep.


	59. Father's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Little interlude about Father's Day?"

Bucky’s allowed to cook as long as he doesn’t use any knives.  It doesn’t take knives to make scrambled eggs or bacon or even toast; Bucky’s become very skilled at spreading butter and jam with a spoon.  It does take a knife to slice open an orange, but Bucky had Natasha do that for him last night so he could make orange juice this morning.

He’s not really meant to cook unsupervised, due to some early incident with a stove burner that he can’t quite remember, but JARVIS is supervising.

Bucky’s putting chrysanthemums in a vase when Steve wanders in.  “You’re up ear—”

“Out!” Bucky demands, whirling around and snapping a kitchen towel in Steve’s direction.  “Get back in bed!”  


Steve doesn’t move.  His hair is sticking up every which way and he’s blinking, clearly half-asleep still.  “What’s with the flowers?”

“It’s Father’s Day, jackass.”  Bucky sighs, tugging at the end of his ponytail.  So much for a surprise.  Bucky Bear doesn’t need to shield the breakfast tray from view anymore either, so Bucky picks him up.  “You’re supposed to get breakfast in bed.  That’s what we always did with my dad.  Only he had the sense not to get up before we could get the food in there.”  


“I—” Steve blinks again.  “Thank you, Bucky.”  He looks as though he might tear up.  Oh, hell no.  If he cries, Bucky will, and Bucky spends enough time with his face shoved into tissues, thank you very much.

“We can just eat out here,” Bucky says, walking off to set Bucky Bear at his place.  “Breakfast in bed probably makes you think of being sick anyway, right?  Didn’t you have to stay in bed for a month with mono once?”

“Pneumonia,” Steve corrects.  He rubs a hand at his eyes, but thankfully there aren’t any tears to wipe away.  “Come here, Buck.”

Bucky’s wrapped in a warm, tight hug before he can even fully turn around.  It’s Father’s Day, so he doesn’t squirm, just rests his head on Steve’s shoulder.  It hides his smile and anyway, it’s comfortable.

“I need two more hugs,” he says when Steve’s arms start to slacken.

“Bucky Bear needs two hugs?” Steve asks, glancing to the bear holding his bottle of honey.

“Three hugs then.”

Steve pulls away, ruffling at Bucky’s hair as though they aren’t nearly the same height.  “All right.  But breakfast first, or it’ll get cold.  Okay?”

“Bucky Bear got you a card,” Bucky says.

“Good bear.”  Steve pets Bucky Bear’s fur a few times before he takes his seat.  “He can have two hugs.”

“I helped pick it out,” Bucky protests.

Steve’s smile is way too bright for this time of the morning.  “Then you’ll get four hugs.”      


Later, after the breakfast and the hugs, when Steve is shaving, Bucky takes the elevator back to his own room.  There are two vases on his desk: one full of pink carnations and one full of daisies.  The vase of carnations has a small, framed photograph of George Barnes set before it.

Bucky isn’t allowed matches, but he has two white LED candles that he ordered online.  The “flames” move and everything.  Bucky switches them on, setting a candle before each vase.

“Miss you,” he whispers, and then he goes back to Steve’s floor.  



	60. You Were All That Mattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude is an AU in which Pierce did not die when Fury shot him.

“I don’t like it.”

“You’ve said that a hundred times, Steve.  You don’t have to like it.”

Bucky doesn’t like it either.  But this isn’t about his comfort.  It’s about closure.

Closure.  Bucky almost laughs at the thought.  Like this will put anything to bed.  Nothing will end until Pierce is truly dead and buried, and maybe not even then.

But he  _has_  to do this.  If the bastard dies with Bucky having never looked him in the eye and told him he’s free, how can Bucky live with himself?  It’ll eat him up from the inside, fill the empty spaces of his mind with rot and spiders until he falls apart.  He has to do this; he doesn’t give a damn what Steve or the therapists or anyone else thinks.

His fingers squeeze around a teddy that isn’t there.  Bucky Bear is still at the tower; if he came along, the temptation to bring him in would be too much.  Bucky would snap at the smirk on Pierce’s face.  Then he’d snap Pierce’s neck.  And that’s not allowed.

Steve made it clear that if it were up to him, Bucky could bash Pierce’s head into a fine paste.  But it’s not up to him.  The Avengers aren’t the ones holding Pierce in a cell and pretending for all the world that he’s dead.  SHIELD is.  And SHIELD won’t let their most valuable asset die, not until they’ve drained every last drop of information from him.

SHIELD is HYDRA, Steve says.  If Bucky gives them any reason, they’ll try to lock him up too.  That’s why Bucky couldn’t come here until after the trial.  Now that most of the public considers him innocent, Bucky can’t just vanish.

The halls consist of gray cinder blocks and water-stained ceiling tiles interrupted by humming fluorescent lights.  Bucky can remember Pierce’s massive house, all windows and paintings.  So modern.  He smirks to think of Pierce wasting away in this hellhole.

Director Coulson is talking to Steve, but Bucky can’t hear it.  There’s a ringing in his ears and it’s not from the lights, growing louder and louder with each step.  His head pounds, sweat breaking out on his skin, and just as the noise grows deafening, Director Coulson turns to Bucky and suddenly his words are crystal clear.

“When I open the door, the forcefield will also dissipate to allow you to walk through.”  He holds Bucky’s gaze.  “If you harm the prisoner, neither of you will leave this facility any time soon.”

It’d be worth a lifetime caged to feel Pierce’s throat crack under his thumbs.  But he can’t do that to Steve.  Bucky glares through this man, giving only the slightest tilt of the head to indicate that he’s heard.

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing, and Bucky wants to lean back into his arms, but the door is clicking open and he has to walk away, walk through.

He knows the forcefield is gone by the time he crosses the threshold, but he still feels as though he’s been doused in ice water.

There are a few books in the cell.  Bucky’s surprised until he realizes SHIELD can’t risk their prize asset to a boredom-induced suicide attempt.  They’re old, the books.   _Man and Citizen.  Ada.  War and Peace_.  Nothing modern, no newspapers.  Can’t risk any encoded messages or knowledge of the outside world.

Which means Pierce hasn’t seen or read about the humiliating trial testimonies.  At least there’s that.

There’s a soft exhalation, a sort of “ah,” and Bucky forces himself to look up.

Pierce is on the bed.

He seems so small.  Whenever Bucky closes his eyes, Pierce is looming over him as though he could crush Bucky underfoot should the mood strike him.  Now he’s diminished, too thin, his face more lined than ever.  The recovery from the bullets Fury put in him can’t have been pleasant.  

Orange doesn’t suit Pierce at all.  Neither does a jumpsuit in place of tailored business attire.  And his hair, once so immaculately styled, hangs limply down his forehead, overdue for a cut.

It would be laughable, beautiful, but his eyes are as cold and firm as Bucky remembers in his nightmares.

Bracing himself, Bucky prepares for whatever verbal slap Pierce will throw at him.  Failure.  Worthless.  Playing at being human.  Such a disappointment.  Bucky will spit it right back in his face, tell him he’s proud to have failed a monster.

But what Pierce says, very softly, without a trace of anger or surprise, is “Hello, sweetheart.”

It’s as harsh a blow as any Bucky could have anticipated, but he wasn’t braced against it.  A tremor runs through his legs, his knees locked and threatening to give out.  He can’t answer.  He _won’t_  answer.

Pierce just smiles.  It’s not like when Steve smiles—there’s something almost laughing to it—but it’s been so long since Bucky’s seen it and it’s so familiar and—

“I’m glad you came to see me,” Pierce says.  He does sound glad.  Really.  


Bucky bites hard on his tongue, but that makes tears well in his eyes, and he can’t cry here.  He can’t.

And Pierce only stares, waiting, like they both know Bucky’s misbehaving.  Like it’s understood that his stubbornness won’t hold out.

“I missed you,” Bucky whispers.  It’s really quiet and comes out like ‘I mithed you,’ but he knows he’ll be understood.  


“I missed you too.  I missed you so much.”  


Bucky can feel his fingers tugging at the ends of his sleeves, rolling the hems.  He wishes he had Bucky Bear.  Daddy would probably like Bucky Bear.  “I—can I—” 

He doesn’t have to finish because Daddy already knows.  He holds his arms out, beckoning.  “Come here.”

Bucky would throw himself at the bed, but that could hurt Daddy.  He makes himself walk instead, clinging as tight has he dares to Daddy when he finally, finally sits down.  There are tears streaming down his face now and that’s bad, that’s so bad, but he can’t help it just like he can’t help the words spilling out of him.

“I’m sorry Daddy I missed you I really really missed you but they wouldn’t let me see you they said I was too sick and SHIELD could lock me up but I missed you so bad and then it was Father’s Day and I wanted to get you flowers but I couldn’t because I didn’t know where to send them and I miss my bunny and your house and your stories and hugging you and helping on missions and I tried to be good on the last mission Daddy I really did but it was so hard and I kept having all these funny feelings and I didn’t know what to _do_  I was so scared and—”  


“Shhh,” Daddy says.  He has one hand rubbing on Bucky’s back as the other strokes his hair.  Daddy rocks him.  “Hush, little one.  It’s not your fault.  Daddy should have known better than to send you on a mission you weren’t ready to handle.  It was too much for you.  You did the best you could.”  


Bucky just blushes, squirming to hide his face against Daddy’s shirt.  It shouldn’t be too much for him.  He should be good.  And now Daddy’s been locked up for forever and it’s all because of Bucky.

“You’re not mad at me?” Bucky whispers.

Daddy tucks Bucky’s hair back behind his ears.  “Never.  You’re my perfect little snowflake, remember?”

Bucky cries even harder at that, but Daddy says that’s okay too.

“Are you staying with Captain Rogers now?” Daddy asks.  “I’m sure he wouldn’t leave you at a hospital.  Is he caring for you properly?”  


With a nod, Bucky tries to ignore the worried twinge in his tummy.  “He’s my daddy now too.”

Daddy look really sad for a second, but then he smiles again.  His hand is so soft and warm on Bucky’s hair.  “I suppose there are worse candidates.”

“He got me a bear,” Bucky mumbles.  “He didn’t know about my bunny, so he gave me a bear.”  


“Oh?” Daddy asks.  He doesn’t sound mad.  “What kind of a bear?”  


“Uh, a Bucky Bear.”  


“ _Oh_ ,” Daddy says again.  His eyes are little wider, like he thinks that’s so cool.  “He must be a very good bear, then.”  


Bucky nods.  “He’s really brave and smart and he eats honey and makes sure everybody’s safe.”  He realizes Daddy might not know who ‘everybody’ is, so he adds, “We live with the Avengers.”

“That must be exciting.”  


“I got stuck to a magnet once,” Bucky offers.  


Daddy makes a sympathetic noise and hugs him tight.  “You poor thing.”

“But everybody’s really nice and reads to me and plays with me and makes sure I’m safe,” Bucky adds.  His face is still buried against Daddy’s chest.  The detergent SHIELD used on the jumpsuit doesn’t smell anything like the stuff Daddy used to have at home, and that makes Bucky frown.  


“Are you okay, Daddy?” he asks.  “Are they being nice to you?  This room looks really boring.  They should at least let you color.”  He used to color with Daddy all the time.  It was fun.  


“I don’t doubt these are the best accommodations they have to offer,” Daddy says.  “These men are doing what they feel is best, sweetheart.  I’ve only ever been unhappy here when I’m missing you.”  


“I miss you all the time, Daddy.”  


“I know you do.  Any good little boy would miss his daddy, and you’re a very good little boy.”  


For a second, Bucky forgets to breathe.  “Really?”

Daddy kisses his forehead.  “Really really.”

“I wanna see you again,” Bucky says.  There’s a whine in his voice, but he’s too worked up to care.  He wipes at his nose so he won’t stain Daddy’s shirt.  “I wanna see you and color and show you my bear.  Can I, Daddy?  Please?  I’ll be really good.”  


Daddy’s still smiling, but now it’s sad.  “That isn’t for me to decide, little one.  You’ll need to ask Captain Rogers and Director Coulson very nicely, all right?”

Bucky feels like his tummy’s full of rocks.  “They’ll say no.”

“You can’t know that.”  Daddy puts his hand under Bucky’s chin, lifting his head up.  “Captain Rogers wants you to be happy.  All daddies want that.  And seeing me again would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”  


Just as Bucky nods, there’s a knock on the door.  That’s how Director Coulson said he’d tell Bucky that time was up.  Bucky jumps at the sound.  If he tries to stay, he’ll get dragged out and probably sedated.

“It’s all right,” Daddy says, stroking his hair again.  “Don’t be scared.”  He starts to let go and Bucky protests, but Daddy just shushes him.  “We’ll see each other again.  It would make you happy and it would make me very happy, my perfect little snowflake.”  


“I love you, Daddy,” Bucky whispers.  


“I love you most of all.”  


When Bucky gets back into the hall, Steve’s eyes are all rimmed in red.  He doesn’t stop sniffing until they’re halfway home.


	61. Seem, For You, The Wrong Companions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude is a direct continuation of the last interlude, as inspired by [these Tumblr asks](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/122911005271/1-3-re-pierce-lives-steves-rage-despair-i) regarding Steve's potential reactions to seeing Pierce manipulate Bucky.

Finally, the vivid purple bruising over Steve’s knuckles is starting to fade to yellow.

He’s still careful to keep that hand from Bucky’s sight as he cards his fingers through his friend’s damp hair, easing out any tangles before he picks up the comb.  Bucky’s oblivious, bouncing his teddy bear up and down, lost in whatever silent game they’re playing.

Steve tries to lose himself in the motions.  He’s brushed Bucky’s hair every day since Bucky first let Steve touch him without flinching, since Steve trusted himself to lay a hand on Bucky without shattering at the thought of all Bucky has suffered.

But he can’t lose himself, not now.  Because Bucky gets his hair combed in the morning, and the clock in the corner of Steve’s vision displays clearly that it’s night.  Because Bucky takes showers, not baths like he just had.  And bubble baths?  Not ever.

“Pierce would give me those,” Bucky had confessed once.  His expression was blank, but his face was pale.  “Sometimes, while I was in there, he’d—he’d—”

Then Bucky had shaken his head, wandered away.  He couldn’t even talk about it.

Less than fifteen minutes of visiting with that monster, and now he’d stayed under the soapy bubbles until the water got cold.  


“Daddy?” Bucky says once Steve picks the comb up.  “Today, I...”  He trails off, staring down at his bear as though it has the words he’s searching for.  


“Yeah, Buck?”  Bucky’s been a kid ever since he stepped out of that godforsaken cell.  Like a defense mechanism: shielding himself from the horror of Pierce’s manipulations by limiting his understanding of them.  But the facade could only last so long.  Steve braces himself for the tears, the self-loathing, the rage.  


But Bucky just yawns, rubbing at his eye.  “Today was fun.”

Steve tries to say ‘I’m glad,’ but the words are sharp and dry, caught in his throat.

“Daddy?”  


Steve chokes out a “Yeah?”

“Bucky Bear wants to know if you’ll read us a story.”  


“Sure.”  Steve tries to smile, but Bucky’s barely glancing his way.  “Sure, I will.  Why don’t you two go pick one out, okay?”  


Bucky scampers off.  Steve lets the comb fall to the floor.  His fists are clenched tight enough that he can hear his knuckles snap for the second time today.

The first time was right after they got back to the tower.  Steve had held it together in the car, save for the intermittent sniffles he just couldn’t contain.  It had felt like every emotion was spilling over.  Like the car should be flooded with tears and red-hot anger and the bitter, metallic taste of despair.  But Bucky hadn’t seemed to notice, so Steve must have been keeping the maelstrom of feelings inside.  Like internal bleeding.

When they returned to the tower, Bucky ran off to tell his bear all about the visit to his “other daddy,” and that’s when Steve had slammed his fist against the bathroom sink.

The granite is shattered now.  Steve can’t even remember the excuse he made to Bucky to explain the damage away.

“Steve,” Sam had said sharply, pulling little fragments of granite from Steve’s knuckles.  In the other room, Bucky had been cuddled up to his bear, telling him about his last daddy’s house.  How big it was.  All the toys he’d had there.  “You have got to stop beating up on yourself for this.”

“I’m the one who brought him there.”  Despite all his misgivings, despite all their arguments about it.  Shouting matches, some of them.  And he’d still given in.  Still exposed Bucky to be broken all over again by that— 

“And what’s done is done.”  Sam had set the tweezers to the side.  “You can’t change it now.  And what happened in that room was not your fault.”  


He could hear Bucky’s excited, hushed words from the next room.  “—and a fireplace like we had at Christmas, remember, and a—” 

“He’s been here for almost a year, Sam.”  Steve’s eyes were stinging again.  Maybe if he cried enough, he’d empty himself of feelings.  Never had hollowing himself out sounded as appealing as it had then.  “And all it took was five seconds for—”

“Five seconds and a lifetime of brainwashing and abuse.”  Sam’s own eyes were clear, hard, and boring into Steve’s.  “A year doesn’t wipe that away, you know.  Decades won’t wipe it away.  Trauma never leaves us, Steve.  We just learn not to let it rule us.  You think I don’t still wake up in the night, knocking my pillows off the bed, trying to save Riley?”     


“I just wanted to help him.”  


“You _are_  helping him.  But you can’t love away trauma, man.  No matter how much you want to.”  


“I’m Captain America,” Steve had said, his voice flat and hopeless.  “I can do anything.”  


Sam shook his head, about to speak, but once again Steve caught Bucky’s words.

“—I had this bunny who was soft and quiet and nice and you’d really like him, he can hop—”

Steve remembered a toy store.  Remembered the look of horror frozen on Bucky’s face.   _My last daddy. He—I had a bunny._  


“I’m going to be sick.”  Steve had bolted up, pulling his hand free of Sam’s grip.  “I can’t—I’m going to be sick.”

And he had been sick, over and over until nothing came up but acid.  He stayed kneeling on the floor, head pressed against the cold tiles, tears leaking out of his eyes.  Steve had tried to wipe them away; if the vomiting hadn’t purged him of emotions, crying wouldn’t.  But it was too much effort to move, so he just lay there, trying not to feel or to hear Sam gently speaking to Bucky in the other room.

The tears stopped eventually.  The raw, gaping ache in his chest has yet to fade.

Steve manages to smile when Bucky returns, holding a book.  “Bucky Bear wants to hear Beauty and the Beast,” he announces.

“Sure thing.”  


Bucky slides under the blankets, tilting his bear to be sure it can see the pictures.

And Steve reads.  He reads about a girl forced into a life of imprisonment, narrates how the hideous creature keeping her captive is really so sweet and kind.  At some point, he thinks he starts screaming, but Bucky’s still and half-asleep, so the sound must be internal.

“The end,” he concludes.  Steve shuts the book and does not tear it in half down the spine.  


“Daddy?” Bucky mumbles.  “Can I sleep here?”  


He hasn’t slept in Steve’s bed since the night he wet the sheets.  At least he’s clearly too exhausted now to try any of the things Pierce used to force him to do in bed.

“Of course you can.  I’ll get the lights.”  


“Love you, Daddy,” Bucky whispers, as Steve brushes the hair back from his face.  


“Love you too.”  


“Daddy?”  


“Yeah?”  


Bucky’s voice is quiet, hesitant.  “Can we see my other daddy again?”

Steve lies frozen, half-blind in the darkness.  He can’t speak, or he really will scream.  He can’t frighten Bucky.  None of this is Bucky’s fault.

By the time Steve manages to stammer out “Let’s see what your doctors say,” Bucky’s already asleep.

Steve watches his friend’s still form, his own mind too loud and too miserable to allow him to rest.  He’s exhausted, exasperated, but not at Bucky.  It’s not Bucky’s fault.  It’s Steve’s.

“You want to hear a story, Buck?” Steve whispers.  His voice sounds so old and defeated.  


Bucky doesn’t stir.

“Once there was a soldier with an idiot best friend who dragged him into battles instead of ordering him home to be safe.  Because of that friend, the soldier was badly hurt and captured by their enemies.  And the enemies tricked the soldier into thinking that they saved him and they loved him, and they abused him and made him do their dirty work.”  


Steve doesn’t realize he’s tearing up again until he blinks and his face is wet.

“When the soldier got free, his terrible friend found him again and tried to help him get his life back to normal.  But he couldn’t..  His friend loved him more than anything else in the entire world, but he didn’t love him _right._   He couldn’t take care of him the way he needed, didn’t know what to do, so the soldier still missed the awful people who used him.  And his friend kept trying and trying, but it wasn’t enough.  It isn’t enough.  I’m so sorry, Bucky.  Please, tell me what you need.  I’ll give you anything.  Just tell me what I can do to make you stop needing him.”

But Bucky, still asleep, doesn’t answer.

And Steve, wide awake, stares up at the ceiling.  Eventually, Bucky will come back to himself and realize how he was manipulated.  The least Steve can do is be here for him when he breaks.

Whatever comfort Steve offers won’t be enough, but he can’t stop trying.  Not ever.   



	62. Where Bad Kids Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A different AU, as suggested by the users of Tumblr, featuring both Steve and Bucky as Pierce's children. This one is dark as hell, possibly even more than the last two.

From the door at the end of the hall, he can hear whimpers.  Moans.  Not screaming.

His thumb, cold and metallic, slips into his mouth against his will.  Sucking, he stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide, to keep from crying.  Crying is what bad kids do.

And the room at the end of the hall, that’s where the really bad kids go.

It would be better if there were screaming.  The blond boy screams all the time.  Daddy says some children just don’t want to be good.  It’s better when the blond boy is screaming.  That means he’s not hurt too bad.

The dark-haired boy has never been to the room at the end of the hall.  He’s had the belt, he’s had the corner, and one time he had to sit in the car for so long that he sweated too much to even cry, but he’s never been bad enough to go to that room.

The blond boy is in there a lot.

When Daddy comes out, he usually ruffles the boy’s dark hair and thanks him for being so good.  Sometimes there are candies or cookies.  The blond boy never gets any.

His eyes seem mostly dry now, so he risks a glance down at his blue bunny rabbit and the blond boy’s purple elephant, sitting on the carpet by his feet.  “I tried to warn him,” he whispers around his thumb.

He always tries to warn the blond boy.  He doesn’t know why.  The boy should know how to behave by now.  He never has trouble behaving on missions as a Soldier.  Not that the dark-haired boy remembers, anyway.  But at Daddy’s house, he’s always acting up.  Knocking things over or coloring on the walls or refusing to say “I love you.”  It’s stupid.  It’s _bad_.

The dark-haired boy knows he should stay away from the blond.  Daddy doesn’t like rude children.  He wouldn’t like it at all if he knew the dark-haired boy tries to clean up after the blond boy, tries to whisper to him to behave when he starts acting up.

But the boy can’t help it.  There’s something about the blond: the way he moves or the way his face looks when he’s mad.  The boy has to help him.  He thinks he’s supposed to.

The blond boy moans again and there are footsteps.

He pulls his thumb from his mouth, glancing at the door.  There’s a shadow where there had been a little sliver of light from inside.  He thinks it’s a shadow and not a puddle of very dark blood leaking out.

Then the door opens and Daddy steps into the hall.  There isn’t blood on the floor.  Daddy’s wiping his hands with a handkerchief, though.  He sees the dark-haired boy and he smiles.

“There’s my good little boy,” Daddy says, ruffling the boy’s hair.  “I’m sorry I took so long, snowflake.  It’s a shame when bad behavior ruins everyone’s good time, isn’t it?”

He mumbles something that sounds close enough to a yes.

Daddy’s smile doesn’t falter.  “Since you’ve been so patient, why don’t we get you some ice cream?”

He glances down at the stuffed animals.  “Can they have some too, please?”

Daddy laughs.  “Of course they can, sweetheart.”

If the purple elephant sucks up some ice cream in her trunk, that will almost be like the blond boy getting some too.


	63. Happy Birthday, Steve Rogers!

“Stevie...”  


Steve rolls over, pressing his face against the pillow.

“Wake up.”

 Steve is valiantly struggling _not_  to wake up.  It’s a losing battle, but that’s not exactly unfamiliar to him.

“Hey.”  A hand is squeezing his shoulder, jostling, too tight to ignore.  “Get up, ya punk.  You’re not allowed to wallow in misery today.”

Steve opens his eyes, blinks to clear them.  He rolls again, onto his back, staring up at Bucky in bewilderment.  “What are you—” 

“It’s your birthday!” Bucky says cheerily, already dressed at this ungodly hour.  “The one day of the whole year I can guilt you into enjoying yourself, and you can’t gripe about it.  Now get up—I got plans.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to celebrate.”  Bucky shoves at his shoulder again.  He’s practically shaking with excitement, sending reverberations through the mattress.

“Can’t we do that _later_?”

“Later I can’t take you to the bakery and and get pastries right as they come outta the oven,” Bucky says.  “If you don’t get up, I’ll start singin’ The Star-Spangled Banner, Stevie.  You don’t wanna hear that.  Nobody wants to hear that.”    


Steve has to admit, grudgingly, that the scent of a bakery right at its opening is like a glimpse of Heaven on Earth.  At least, in his exhausted mind.  By the time he’s biting into a nearly too warm Danish, he can feel his irritation ebb, overcome by buttery, flaky goodness.

“Told ya you’d like it,” Bucky says smugly, his lips glistening with the glaze from his cinnamon roll.  There’s a glob of the stuff at the corner of his mouth, and Steve reaches out to wipe it away.  


Bucky catches his wrist and, guessing at the intent, swipes a napkin across his mouth.  “Ah ah,” he says with mock sternness.  “You’re not spending your birthday lookin’ after me.”

“How are we spending it, Buck?”  Steve gives a resigned sigh, but he can’t keep from smiling.  


“Well, they’re not settin’ off the fireworks in your honor ‘til dark,” Bucky begins.  “So I figured—”

“They’re not really in my honor.”

“These are,” his friend says firmly.  “Anyway, I figure until then, we can do whatever you want.  Go to the pictures, ooh and aah around some art museum, catch a ferry and make our way to Coney Island, go dancing—whatever you’d like, Stevie.  I leave it entirely in your hands.”

“What if I want to—”

“Going back to bed is not an option.”

“It figures,” Steve says dryly, stuffing the last of the pastry into his mouth.

“And,” Bucky adds, his jaw set, “I’m payin’ for everything.”

“Like hell you’re—”

“Whose birthday is it?” Bucky asks, rubbing the napkin at his mouth again. “If you don’t let me treat you, I’m just gonna take all the money I would’ve spent and...give it to some charity for the...Blond and Constantly Frowning.  Or something.”  


Steve arches a brow.  “The what?  It’s clearly too early.  Listen to yourself.”

“We’re gonna go out, and we’re gonna have fun,” Bucky says.  “Even if I have to haul you over my shoulder, kicking and screaming.”  


Bucky takes him to Coney Island.  It’s unseasonably cool, pleasant, which means even more people will be flocking there than usual, but they arrive early enough that there’s no line to speak of when Bucky insists on riding in the spinning teacups.

Later, after the Ferris Wheel, when Bucky’s mouth is blue with cotton candy and Steve’s stuffing his face with a Coney dog, Bucky’s eyes light up.

“Remember,” he asks so very innocently, “That time we rode the Cyclone and you got sick?”  


Steve looks at him sharply.  “You looking to repeat that?”

“You could probably stomach it better now.”  Bucky shrugs, tearing off another blob of the sugar fluff.  There are blue wisps stuck to his fingertips.  


Steve reaches out and takes his other hand, squeezing his cold fingers.  “Bucky.  The Cylcone...do you really remember that, or do you just remember that I told you?”

Bucky smiles.  His teeth are stained blue, his lips twitching.  “Aw, c’mon, what does that matter?  It’s your birthday, you shouldn’t be worryin’ about that stuff.”

“You don’t remember, do you?”  


“You know what I think, Stevie?” Bucky asks.  He’s trying to wriggle his hand free, but Steve won’t let him.  “I think we’ve got a lotta stuff to do before Stark sets off the firecrackers tonight, so we oughta keep moving and not—”

Steve’s hugging Bucky then, hot dog dropped on the ground, not caring about the spun sugar that must be all over their shirts now.  “Bucky,” he says.  “I love you no matter what you remember.  You don’t have to act like someone you’re not anymore.  You’re still my best friend.”

“But it’s your birthday,” Bucky says, sullen.  

Steve can imagine what’s going on in Bucky’s head right now: he’s telling himself he’s a failure, saying that if he were better, Steve wouldn’t have noticed the deception.  


“I thought,” Bucky continues, voice faltering.  “I thought we could just pretend, just for one day, that nothing ever—”

“Bucky,” Steve says firmly.  He steps back, holding Bucky’s hand, and steers his best friend to sit on a bench.  “You’re _alive._   Every day that I wake up and you’re still here?  It’s like Christmas and my birthday all at once.  We don’t need to pretend.”

“I wanted to be your Bucky.”

“You _are_  my Bucky,” Steve insists, frowning when Bucky scoffs.  “Buck.  Remember movie night last week, when Tony had to cancel and Pepper said she was feeling neglected?  Remember what you said?”  


“That if I were her boyfriend, I’d let rogue robots blow up the world before I missed a date night,” Bucky says flatly, not meeting Steve’s eyes.  


“Which is exactly what you said to Elsie Meyers when Bill Conway stood her up,” Steve says.  “Bet you didn’t remember that, did you?”  


Bucky stares at him.  “I said I’d rather let robots blow up the world?”

“Well, you said you’d blow off a pool tournament, but still.”  Steve settles onto the bench beside him, brushing cotton candy off of Bucky’s shirt.  “Your personality’s still there, Buck, whether or not you know everything you used to.  And even when you’re acting different—I don’t love you any less when you’re five, you know?”

“Speaking of that,” Bucky says, a flush through his face.  “Uh, last night.  When I was little.  Tony might have, um.”

“Yeah?”

“He, uh, kind of convinced me that we all need to watch a movie tonight to celebrate your birthday.”

Steve holds in a sigh.  “It’s not a documentary on the making of popsicles, is it?”

Bucky blinks.  “No.  It’s Sharknado.”

“The hell is Sharknado?”

“A tornado full of sharks,” Bucky says matter-of-factly, sucking away the sugar stuck to his fingers.

“ _Why_?”

“’Cause I like sharks and Tony says it’s a cinematic masterpiece.”  Bucky shrugs.  “Do we have to leave now?”

“Of course not.”  Steve puts an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him close.  “I just don’t want you to have to pretend for my sake.”  But Bucky’s still so tense as he speaks.  “You’ve got your bear in your backpack, right?  Do you want to hold him?”

“Not until after we ride the Cyclone.”

“You were serious about that?”

Bucky nods.

Steve can’t help the grin spreading across his face.  “Fine.”    



	64. One of a Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Little interlude about Steve and Bucky/Snowflake going to the mall for the first time together?"

“So the zombies try to cross the yard into your house,” Bucky explains through a mouthful of pretzel.  He has both the pretzel and his drink clamped awkwardly in one hand so the other can hold his bear.  “And you’re using the houseplants to keep ‘em at bay.”  


“But how do houseplants stop zombies?”  Steve scans the shops they’re passing, not really seeing the items in the window displays.  He doesn’t need anything.  Bucky probably doesn’t either, but after the second, Rumlow-free trip to a mall, Sam reported that Bucky had developed a fondness for Auntie Annie’s pretzels.  Odds are they’re here for the snacks, not the shopping.

“Lots of ways.”  Bucky shrugs.  “Shooting peas, catching the zombies in a big fly trap, building a blockade of walnuts—”

“ _Walnuts_?” Steve asks.

“They’re big walnuts.  Clint’s games are weird.”

 “Apparently.”  


They lapse into silence, just walking.  The crowd navigates around them; they both instinctively move as soldiers do, and so everyone else takes note and slides out of their path.  Steve can hear their footsteps beneath the noise of all the other shoppers, moving in perfect unison.

Until Bucky stops.

“Daddy?”  


Steve turns.  Bucky’s brought the bear up to his chest.  He’s staring through the window of a toy store.

Relieved, Steve smiles.  “Wanna take a look inside?”

Bucky shakes his head.  It’s only then that Steve realizes his eyes are wide with worry, not excitement.  “I…”

“Yeah?”  Steve moves a little closer, careful not to make Bucky feel confined.  “What’s up, honey?”  


“What are those?” Bucky asks, still staring through the glass.  


Steve looks.  Along the far wall, on a shelf just at Bucky’s eye level, is a row of Bucky Bears.

Bucky’s squeezing his own bear very tight.

“They’re Bucky Bears,” Steve says slowly, trying to work out just what the problem is.  If he tries reassuring Bucky about the wrong thing, that’ll only worry him further.  “They started making them again.”  


Almost right after Bucky’s trial, but Steve doesn’t mention that.  He imagines a boardroom of toy company executives debating the pros and cons of Winter Soldier-themed merchandise, and struggles not to grind his teeth.

“They don’t look like my Bucky Bear,” Bucky mutters.  


That’s not quite true.  All the same design elements are there, just updated.  Glass eyes switched out for safer alternatives.  The heads are a little larger.  Noses made of hard plastic in place of waxed embroidery.  And there’s a large B on each of the coat sleeves now.  The fabric of the coats looks flimsier.

“Does Bucky Bear want to say hi to the other bears?” Steve asks.  “I bet one of the first Bucky Bears would be like meeting a movie star for them.”  


Bucky shakes his head quite forcefully, and Steve understands.

The Bucky Bear in his friend’s grasp is clearly well-loved.  His fur no longer looks as soft and glossy as the bears in the window.  He’s closer to a stuffed animal inhabiting an antique shop than one you’d find in a toy store.  And Bucky hadn’t taken his bear to the store where Natasha got her panda, either.  Hadn’t wanted him to feel replaced.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks.  He leans in conspiratorially, whispers.  “The truth is, they’re not quite Bucky Bears.”  


Bucky stares at him, lips parted.  “Huh?”

“They’re teddy bears dressed _up_  as Bucky Bears to scare away robbers,” Steve explains.  “And they can listen to the customers and let the shop owner know if they’re planning anything bad.”  


Bucky looks down at his bear as if to verify this fact.

“It’s a big honor for teddy bears,” Steve adds before Bucky can start to question his logic.  “Only the really brave bears get chosen.  But I bet an even bigger honor would be to meet a real Bucky Bear.  And he could make sure they’re doing their job well, couldn’t he?”

Bucky and the bear exchange another silent look.

Then Bucky’s bounding into the toy store.  Steve follows after him, smiling.

On the way back home, Bucky says that his bear has declared this to be the best outing ever.


	65. Required Reading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Did Steve ever do some research into Age Play? I feel like it would have helped him so much to discover that this is a thing other people do, that it can be consensual and non-sexual and healthy and ok, and so he can make it be that way for Bucky."

The woman on the computer screen is seated casually on her couch.  She looks composed, comfortable, nonthreatening.  She clears her throat.  “Have you ever wanted the chance to relive your childhood?” she asks.  “Try out all the experiences you never got to have?  Or do you ever feel stressed and overworked and wish you could go back to simpler times?”

As she speaks, text is materializing beneath her.  The font looks like baby blocks, spelling out “An Introduction to Age Play.”

Steve holds in a sigh.  Natasha had ambushed him the second he finished catching up with Thor, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she’s spying on him now.

“You can’t keep avoiding Bucky,” she’d said, arms crossed.  He was nearly twice Nat’s size, but she’d still seemed impassable.  “It’s killing him, Steve.”  


“What am I supposed to do?” he demanded, stiff and exhausted.  He couldn’t think about Bucky.  Every time he tried to imagine his friend as anything beyond an abstract concept to be avenged these days, the tears started up.  And if he cried now, he didn’t think he could stop himself.  “Play into Pierce’s games?  Let him think I’ll use him the same way?”  


“It doesn’t have to be the way Pierce did things.”  


Steve shook his head.  That was easy for her to say.  She’d taken to helping Bucky through this by playing a fellow child.  Bucky didn’t want that from Steve.  He wanted—God, he wanted— 

Natasha had shoved Steve to the nearest computer, and he hadn’t struggled.  Now here is he, working his way through a document of links Nat already had waiting.

It starts with a Wikipedia article.  “Ageplay is roleplaying between adults,” the article states, “and involves consent from all parties.” 

Well, it sure didn’t for Bucky.

The next link is a webpage detailing safe, sane and consensual BDSM practices.  After that are two scholarly articles, one about “non-sexual kinks” and the other regarding the therapeutic aspects of ageplay.  The researchers compare it to age regression therapy, which Steve’s never heard of.

And Natasha must have anticipated that, because the link after that article is a website about regression therapy.

Following that is a glossary of ageplay terms.  Little, caregiver, daddy dom, little space, ABDL.  The sheer amount of terminology makes Steve’s head spin.  He’d never thought of this as a community.  As anything but Pierce’s abuse.

There’s a written interview with a man in his thirties whose little side is two.  And now Steve’s watching this woman explain the basics of ageplay, debunk misconceptions, and describe how she enters her little space.  Once the video concludes, the next link is a blog post of resources for caregivers.

Steve buries his face in his hands.

“You all right?” Nat asks.  He hadn’t heard her come in.  She must not have wanted him to.  


“I haven’t been all right since the forties.”  


“Probably so.”  Natasha walks to his chair, leaning against the computer desk.  “But are you all right with this?”  


There’s the familiar swell of disgust in Steve’s stomach, and now he feels guilt on top of it.  How can he not, having just listened to perfectly nice people explain how much it comforts them?

“I’m all right with _this_ ,” he says finally.  “With consenting adults working out boundaries with other consenting adults.  But Bucky never consented.  Pierce never gave him a safe word or asked about his limits or any of that.”  He clenches his fists.  “If Bucky had come up to me and said, ‘Hey, this might help’?  If it was an idea he had of his own free will?  But it’s _not,_  Nat.  This is something he was made to want.  He wouldn’t have chosen it.”  


Sure, Bucky loved attention, never looking happier than he did with a pretty girl clinging to his arm, fussing over him.  He’d be unabashedly gleeful about Steve’s artwork or Stark’s latest inventions showing up in the papers, a carefree abandon seldom seen among grown men, but that doesn’t mean he’d want to be treated like a grade schooler.  He didn’t have a choice.

And if Steve entertains this, won’t he be taking away that choice all over again?

For a moment, Natasha is silent, staring at him.  She has a gift of looking straight through him without giving him the slightest insight into her own thoughts.  “After the serum,” she says, “how long did it take you to stop avoiding the things that used to trigger your asthma?”

He still catches himself at it, sometimes.  Still braces himself when he steps outside on a cold day, waiting for the frigid air to burn his throat, knock the breath from his lungs.

“There are things I learned in the Red Room that I still carry with me,” Natasha carries on before he can speak.  She rubs at her wrist, staring at the wall.  “Things I don’t know if I’ll ever let go.  When I used to fight them, they were so heavy that it felt like I was drowning.  I couldn’t float until I learned to use those things to help me up.”  


It’s not that Steve doesn’t understand what she’s saying.  But he can’t play into this.  Bucky’s his best friend.  And Steve’s loved him more than that since before he knew the words for his feelings.  He can’t step into the role Pierce played.  He _can’t_.

“If someone falls off a bike,” Natasha says.  “Do you get rid of every bike in the neighborhood, or do you teach them how to balance?”  


“Do you rescue someone from a pit of lions or throw them back in?” Steve counters.  


“This isn’t easy, Steve.”  Her arms are crossed again, and while there’s pity in her face, it’s still cold.  “No one ever said it would be.  Right now?  This separation’s only hurting both of you.  And maybe it helps for a while to tear apart a HYDRA bunker, to throw some agents in jail, but what happens when you run out of those bases?  Bucky’s still going to be here.  You can’t hide from that forever.  And I’m not saying you have to do this, but you have to find a way to make things work.  For both of you.”  


Then she’s striding toward the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He looks at the list of resources for caregivers.  One blog has pictures: a mommy and her little.  They’re smiling.  Happy.  The little looks carefree.

And Steve finds himself in Bucky’s doorway, slipping a nightlight into his pocket.  He’d bought it a few weeks ago but hesitated to give it to Bucky.  It had seemed like an insult, a suggestion that he couldn’t cope.

Bucky catches sight of him and Steve tries to smile.  “Can we talk?”


	66. Adaptive Tech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "i'd love to request something w/ sippy cups revisited :))"

“Tony?”  


Tony looks up from his latest project, still turning the wrench in his hands.  Bucky’s in the corner, clinging to his bear, half-hidden behind Dum-E.  “What’s up, tiger?”

Absently, he wonders if he can convince the kid to call him Uncle Tony.  Or maybe Tony the Great and Powerful.  It’d be worth the inevitable super soldier slap to the skull just to see the looks on Steve and Rhodey’s faces first.

Bucky whispers something unintelligible.

“Didn’t quite catch that, buddy.  Come again, for the people in the cheap seats?”  


“Something’s wrong with my arm,” Bucky says, staring at the floor.  


Wrench forgotten, Tony stands.  “Does it hurt?  Is it all right if I touch it?”

Bucky nods, still not looking up.  “Doesn’t hurt.  Just…”

“Yeah, kiddo?”  Tony pulls out two stools.  Usually he tries to sit when Bucky stands, to keep the kid from feeling crowded, but this might be a long examination.  Bucky ought to be comfortable for it.  Kid’s already wound up enough.  


“I can’t pick up cups,” Bucky whispers.  


Tony blinks, hands stilling in their examination of the prosthetic.  “Cups?”

“Just cups.”  Bucky looks down at his bear like he’s expecting it to nod.  If it does, Tony’s calling a priest.  “Everything else I pick up is okay.  But I can’t hold them.”  


“Right,” Tony says, drawing out the word.  “Here.  Hold tight.  I’m gonna run some tests, and none of them will hurt you.”  


He sets an empty cup before Bucky on the table, stolen from Bruce’s cot.  “Okay, Bucky.  Lemme see what happens when you try and lift that.”

Bucky reaches out with his metal hand.  The cup is knocked to its side.

“Good boy,” Tony says, making a show of recording the data.  “Now, I’m going to put some water in it, okay?”  


Bucky bites his lip.  “I’ll make a mess.”

Tony, ever the genius, remedies this with a liberal application of paper towels to the tabletop.

Just as before, the cup falls over.

With a low whistle, Tony scribbles that down as well.  “You’re right.  Definitely can’t pick them up.”  He pauses, tapping his pen against the paper.  “What happens if you use your right hand?”

The right hand lifts the empty glass.  When Tony fills it, Bucky reaches out and jerks away.

“It’s too cold,” he whispers.  


“I see.”  Tony walks his fingers up Bucky’s prosthetic, occasionally lifting a plate here or there, always with Bucky’s consent.  After a thorough examination, he sits back, thoughtful.  


“Well,” Tony says finally.  “I can’t see what’s wrong.  And if I, Tony the Brilliant—”  


Bucky coughs.  And his bear—who knew a stuffed bear could look like it’s smirking?

There’s a long, frowning pause before Tony continues.  “Like I said, if _I_  can’t figure out what’s wrong, then nobody can, Buckaroo.  Just not possible.”

Bucky appears to consider this.  He doesn’t look especially worried.  “What do we do?” he asks, giving his bear a squeeze.

“Well, the way I see it, there are two possibilities.”  Tony tries for a child-friendly mad scientist sort of smile.  “I can take your arm off and give you a new one—”  


 _That_ gets Bucky’s eyes to widen.

“—Or,” Tony continues, taking it down a notch, “we could go for a less extreme solution.”

“I like the second one best,” Bucky says, nodding.

“Kiddo, I haven’t even told you the second one yet.”

Bucky shrugs.  “Still like it better.”

“Okay.”

*

The store had a sippy cup for almost every Avenger: Steve, Tony, Clint, Nat, and Bruce.  There aren’t any Falcon or War Machine cups, but Tony figures he can design those in his sleep.

“All right.”  Tony puts the Iron Man cup, full of juice, in front of Bucky.  “Go wild.”

The cup tips to its side again, but the liquid stays contained by the lid.  

Bucky’s smile is blinding.  If he ever feels like getting into the workforce, he ought to look into modeling for toothpaste ads.

“See?” Tony says.  “Doesn’t matter if you knock this one over.  Now, wanna see my latest upgrade to the suit?  It’s really cool.”  


Ten minutes into his demonstration, and the cup stops knocking over when Bucky tries to pick it up, moving smoothly from the table to his mouth and back every time.  Tony doesn’t say a thing.

Not until the elevator opens and Steve steps out.  “Hey, Bucky, you ready for—”  Then he stops, glancing at his kid’s choice of beverage vessel.  “Where’d you get—”

“Doctor’s orders,” Tony says.  He is technically a doctor.  Not a medical doctor, but Bucky’s part machine.  It all works out.  “Trust me, Cap, it’s super essential.”  



	67. There Were Two in the Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "if you are so inclined to write an interlude. I keep imagining Little Bucky going thru a stage where he's tossing and turning so much at night he falls out of bed. Maybe not from nightmares just the way kids seem to turn in circles in the night. maybe he's spending a few nights at Pepper and Tony's. "Mommy" Pepper kissing the boo boo and putting on a bandaid. and/or Tony soon after presenting a cool race car bed that he cant roll out of, but large enough to invite bedtime story snuggles."

The first time, Bucky’s horrified.

Pepper said Bucky could share her bed as long he slept so his metal arm wasn’t beside her.  One of Tony’s suits grabbed onto her once when Tony had a nightmare, and it made her really scared.

Bucky promised he’d be so quiet and so still, and now he’s fallen off the bed.

Above him, Pepper gasps.  


He moved around so much he _fell._   There’s no way he didn’t hit Pepper.  And there’s no way hitting her wouldn’t really, really hurt her.  He can’t breathe.  What if she’s _dying_?  What if he had a nightmare and started choking her, or if he broke her skull, or if— 

“Bucky!” Pepper says, staring at him over the side of the mattress.  In the dark, her eyes look like big black holes, like maybe he punched her.  Bucky whimpers at the thought, shaking, feeling hot trickles between his legs that he can’t even try to stop, too busy worrying.  


“Bucky,” Pepper says again, and she’s moving now.  She’ll tell him to get out.  She’ll say she never wants to see him again.  


Bucky blinks out tears, the trickles turning into a flood.  “I’m sorry!  I’m so, so sorry!  I didn’t mean—” 

Pepper settles on the floor beside him, reaching out to stroke his hair.  “Sweetie, you don’t need to apologize for falling out of bed.  Are you hurt?”

He just stares.  “I didn’t hit you?”

“You didn’t even touch me.  You must have rolled right out of the bed—I’m a light sleeper.”  She smiles.  “Trust me, if you’d moved around, I would have known.  Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.”  Bucky wipes his nose, squirming, face red.  He’s so worked up over _nothing_  and he can’t stop sniffling, and Pepper’s still petting his hair while he’s having an accident.  Maybe he should just hide under the bed for the rest of the night.  It can’t be as bad as this.  


“Bad dream?” Pepper asks.  


“I dunno.”  


“It’s okay,” she soothes.  “Do you want another story before you go back to bed?”  


“Um,” is all he can say, shifting and trying to sink into the floorboards.  


“Oh.”  Pepper straightens up.  “Why don’t you pick out a book while I start the bath?”  


The next time it happens, Bucky’s napping after lunch.

He’s not supposed to do that—it’s bad for his sleep habits—but he felt so sick once he choked down the meal.  Whenever the Avengers go on a mission, he feels nauseated after eating, even more than usual.  And this is a long mission.  It’s already been three days.  He can handle the shorter missions better.  He never ends up sleeping in Pepper’s bed because of those.

He wakes up sprawled on top of his boots, with Pepper rushing in.  He slept in his clothes this time—Pepper assured him that was fine as long as he stopped by the bathroom before he lay down—and they’re rumpled from sleep but otherwise untouched.  He hasn’t torn at himself, afraid of his dreams.  Pepper says she didn’t hear any screaming, and Bucky Bear agrees.

“You didn’t hit your head, did you?” Pepper looks prepared to go sprinting for an ice pack.  


“No.”  He sits up, frowning.  “I don’t know what’s going on.”  


“It’s probably stress, James,” she says.  “Why don’t we take Lucky for a walk, burn off some energy?”  


“Okay.”  


The third time, it’s that night, and Bucky falls onto a bunch of pillows carefully laid out by the bed.  Pepper put them there before he fell asleep.  But his wrist still bangs against the bed frame on the way down, and it hurts.

“Sweetie,” Pepper says, gently examining his hand, “I just thought of something.  Your own bed’s up against a wall, isn’t it?”  


And then Bucky can’t help but giggle, because it’s so simple and he never thought about it.

Pepper kisses his wrist.  “All better, see?  You can sleep on the other side of the bed from now on, Bucky.  That way, you’ll just roll toward the middle.  Here.”  She offers his hand to help him up.  “Do you need a bath?”

“Uh-uh.”  Bucky can’t hold back a yawn.  Now that the shock of falling is wearing off, he’s really tired again.

“Okay.”  Pepper guides him to the side of the bed she was on.  It’s hard to keep his eyes open for just the time it takes for her to tuck him in.

“Good night, Bucky,” she says, brushing the hair back from his forehead.

“Night, Mommy,” he whispers, and he’s asleep too fast to be embarrassed.    



	68. Shark Repellent Cap Spray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask.
> 
> "Can we please have an interlude with Steve being a good Daddy to Bucky (maybe petting his hair or reading a story or them going swimming IDK) to heal our hearts after the pain of the last update? :("
> 
> And the chapter title, of course, is from the 1966 Batman movie's shark repellent Bat spray.

Bucky’s been sitting at the side of the pool, doing little more than dip his toes in for the past ten minutes.  Steve assumed he was waiting to adjust to the water, ease himself in inch by inch the way Steve used to have to in order to keep the sudden change in temperature from making his chest seize up or his head go light.  But it’s been nothing but ten minutes of his feet skimming the surface, and there’s no way the water’s that cold.

It’s not cold at all.  Tony wouldn’t dream of having a pool that wasn’t heated.

Steve finishes a lap—he had dived in to show Bucky there’s nothing to be nervous about—and hangs onto the side of the pool, smiling up at Bucky.  “Don’t feel like swimming today?”

“Bucky Bear’s worried.”  


“Yeah?”  Steve feels a familiar sinking in his stomach.  What if Bucky’s starting to remember a mission involving water?  That’s not fair; swimming is one of the few activities that compensates for the excess weight of Bucky’s prosthetic and helps the aching muscles around it to get some rest.  “What’s he worried about?”

“Sharks,” Bucky mutters, giving the deep end an ominous glance.  


Sharks.  Steve don’t know where Clint got that damn plastic fin, but he could beat the archer senseless with it.  Bucky saw it once and was afraid of showers for a week.  Steve can’t let it ruin the pool for him too.

“There aren’t any sharks here,” Steve promises, giving Bucky’s foot a squeeze.  “I just swam, and I didn’t see a one.  I promise.”  


“Yet.”  Bucky looks so convinced that Steve half-wonders if HYDRA ever dumped his friend in a shark tank for some sort of sadistic research.  “They can squeeze through the drain.”  


“I think their bones would get in the way, Buck.”  


“Kitties have bones and they can squeeze under doors,” Bucky says matter-of-factly.  “Tony showed me a video.”  


Wonderful.  The whole tower is conspiring against him in his attempts to keep Bucky from any further, non-HYDRA traumas.  “Super soldiers are immune to shark bites,” Steve assures him.  “Promise.”

“Bears aren’t.”  


“I can sit with Bucky Bear if you want to swim?”  


Bucky shakes his head.  “But Daddy, then you won’t have fun.”

“Sure I will.”  Steve’s still smiling.  Sometimes he wonders if he looks like some sort of automaton around the kid.  “I like Bucky Bear.”  


“Tony made a special raft just to keep Bucky Bear safe,” Bucky whispers, frowning.  “But he didn’t make it sharkproof.”  


Steve feels himself frowning.  Of course he suggests swimming when Tony’s out of the building for a conference, when they can’t just take the raft to the lab and have Tony do a little sleight of hand to make everything better.

Then he’s struck with inspiration, hauling himself out of the pool.

“Daddy?”  


“Be right back,” he says, heading for the shed that serves as a pool house.  There are all the chemicals necessary to maintain a pool in there, but there’s also a fully stocked fridge, because Tony.  He digs around the shelves and finds a bottle of vibrant blue Gatorade.  Grabbing one of the empty cups meant for chlorine or whatever else goes into a pool, Steve then screws off the top of the Gatorade and fills the cup to the rim.  


“Know what this is?” he asks as he returns to the pool, careful to step around the splatters he’s already left in his wake.  He can’t imagine the trauma if he were to slip and smack his head on the ground, even though it wouldn’t even hurt for a full hour.  


Bucky shakes his head, eyes wide.  His feet aren’t in the water anymore; he must have pulled them out as soon as Steve got up.

“Shark repellent,” Steve says, crouching at the side of the pool to pour the liquid in.  “Very concentrated shark repellent.  One cup’s enough for a whole pool, for an entire week.”  


Bucky watches as the blue swirls in the water, spreading and diluting until it’s indistinguishable from the rest of the water.  “It doesn’t hurt the sharks, does it?”

Sometimes Steve wonders if Bucky ever went on missions with Murphy.  “Doesn’t hurt the sharks at all,” Steve assures him.  “Just, uh, makes them think there are some very tasty fish in another direction.”

Bucky seems to mull this over.

“You and Bucky Bear wanna go for a swim now?”  


And Bucky nods so eagerly.


	69. Inside Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "I thought it was so cute that Sebastian Stan liked Inside Out! How would you picture Bucky's mind from an Inside Out perspective?"
> 
> The scene referenced here is a portion from the sequence in [_'Till the End of the Line_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2500715), in which Bucky finds the knife in the nightstand.

“Ooh!”  Joy bounded out of the bookshelves, the task of reorganizing the manuals clearly forgotten.  “What’s that?  It’s shiny!”  


“It’s a knife!” Fear shrieked, wrestling Joy to try and gain control of the panel.  “Knives are dangerous!  We’re not supposed to touch them!”  


“We’re not supposed to piss the bed either, and that doesn’t stop us from doing it every damn night,” Disgust said flatly with a roll of the eyes.  “We’ve been stockpiling ‘em long enough, might as well see what happens.”  


Together, Joy and Disgust managed to knock Fear away from the control panel, guiding Bucky to wrap his fingers around the knife’s handle.

Fear howled, running around the room and crashing into _everything._   Memories spilled across the floor.  He bounced off the control panel a few times, but it didn’t make Bucky release the knife, just made him shake.

“Keep that up and we’re gonna piss ourselves again,” Disgust warned.  “Not that it matters.  Everyone knows how pathetic we are anyway.”  


“Bucky?”  


Bucky raised his head.  Steve was in the doorway.

That was all it took to send Fear ricocheting, memories literally flying across the room.  One hit the projector, firing it up, and all manner of memories flickered across the screen.  Brooklyn.  A hug after story time last week.  Zola’s lab.  The mission.   _The mission the mission the mission_.

“Huh,” said Disgust.  “And here I thought he couldn’t run any faster.”  


“We’re going to hurt Daddy,” Sadness whispered.  


“Stop calling him that!” Anger shouted.  “He’s not our Daddy, he’s our mission!  And if we’d taken him out like we were supposed to, we wouldn’t be so useless all the time!”  


Sadness collapsed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling instead of arguing back.

Fear had his hands on the joystick, trying to tug it away from Joy and Disgust.

“But I wanna know what happens,” Joy protested.  


“Bucky?” Steve repeats.  “Are you all right?”  


“Oh, that’s it!”  Anger stomped forward, starting to flare up.  “We haven’t been all right since you took us in!  And now you’re gonna pay for it!”  


Despite Fear’s struggles, Bucky lifted the knife.  Sadness was sobbing on the floor in the background.

“You know you’re not supposed to play with knives,” Steve said, and their attention snaps back to him.  “Give it to Daddy, please.”  


“We’re going to be in so much trouble!” Fear wailed.  “We’re going to hurt him!  HYDRA’s going to hurt us!”  


“Serves him right,” Disgust said.  “Does he actually think we’re five?  Gag.”  


“It’s our job,” Anger growled, trying to swat Fear away.  “And we’re gonna _do it_.”  



	70. Someone Is Wrong on the Internet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: What about Steve talking to/bonding with a parent/guardian who adopted/fostered a kid who had been abused before coming to live with them? Sharing stories/coping techniques, etc? Or Steve's first voyages into the internet to check out parenting chat boards and support?

**Home > Pregnancy and Parenting > Advice > DS has stomach aches just in the mornings…Help!**

**Reply to Thread:**

**Your Message:**

**Title: re: DS has stomach aches just in the mornings…Help!**

_BKNDodgers107:_

_I can’t believe you consider yourself a loving parent and still make posts like this, **FastTimes**.  A mother is posting in concern for her child and you brush off vertigo and nausea as ‘trying to get out of school’?  You tell her not to be so gullible when she tells you of her son crying for fear of being ill again?  Have you never heard of motion sickness?  That should be the first thought when a kid repeatedly vomits on the school bus and nowhere else, and I’d expect a self-proclaimed “expert on children” and mother of four to know that._

_More importantly, have you never heard of trusting your child?  Kids need their parents to be their advocates, especially in a society that all too often brushes their suffering aside as “acting out” or “exaggerating.”  If I treated my son by your suggested methods, we’d never have found food he’s able to eat and he’d be hospitalized or dead of starvation.  I’m going to link to several studies on the long term damage of mistrusting your own child, and I suggest that you read them and_

“Steve.”  Sam sighs, as though he’s the one responding to this awful woman.  “Cut yourself off.”  


“But she’s wrong!” Steve protests.  “What she’s advocating is dangerous!”  


“Yeah, and the mom asking about her kid already dismissed her.”  Sam knows this because Steve may or may not have read the entire discussion thread to him.  While pacing around the room and interjecting angry remarks.  “She’s already shown her ass.  So why keep giving her attention?”  


“Because she’s wrong!”  


“Lotta people are wrong on the Internet every day,” Sam counters, rubbing at his temples.  “Are you planning to argue with all of them?”  


“Somebody has to.”  


Sam reaches over and shuts off the laptop.


	71. Good Boys Don't Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: If you're inclined to more sadness, how about early days Bucky fretting over every single interaction with Daddy Steve, because the parameters have all shifted and oh god, he brought up his old daddy. Because that lullaby interlude killed me with all that must have been racing through Bucky's head.

Bucky’s in Daddy’s kitchen, having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.  There’s a glass of milk and when he tries to set it back down on the table after taking a drink, it knocks over.  For a second, Bucky watches, frozen, as the milk spills across the table and drips onto the floor.

Daddy’s not here.  He went out to get lunch with Sam.  Bucky’s alone.

Except he’s not really alone.  JARVIS never stops watching.  JARVIS is going to tell.

 _You have to clean it up now_ , Bucky Bear says.   _You can’t make a mess._

So Bucky cleans.  He scrubs the table and the floor with cleaner twice after he’s soaked up all the milk and wiped at the surfaces with water.  Milk smells awful if it spoils.  He has to clean it all up.

He doesn’t cry.  Bucky Bear says that good boys don’t.  He cleans up the mess and gets a belt out of Daddy’s closet.  Then he sits on the floor next to the couch and waits.

“Hey, Buck,” Daddy says when he comes back.  “You have fun with your bear?”  


Bucky holds out the belt.  If he answers, he’ll make an excuse.  Excuses are bad.

“Bucky?” Daddy asks.  He frowns, forehead wrinkled like he’s confused.  


“I spilled the milk,” he says.  “I was bad.”  


Daddy looks pale then.  Really pale.  Bucky knew that spilling milk was bad, but he hadn’t known it would upset Daddy this much.  He’s the worst little boy ever.

When he speaks, Daddy’s voice sounds hoarse.  “Bucky, you’re not in trouble.”  


Of course he’s in trouble.  “But I made a mess.”  And now he’s talking back.  Bucky can’t keep from flinching.

“That doesn’t matter.”  


“But you have to punish me!” Bucky protests.  He just got Daddy to like him again.  He can’t break the rules if he wants Daddy to be around him instead of hiding on missions.  “My last daddy said that boys who are bad and make messes have to be punished!”  


Bucky slaps a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late.  He mentioned his last daddy.  Now he’s really in for it.

Daddy moves forward, so Bucky shuts his eyes tight and braces for a punch.

But the punch doesn’t come.  Instead, he’s being hugged.

“Bucky,” Daddy says.  “That’s not the way things work here.  I will never punish you like that.  Not ever.”  


“But I don’t know how to be good,” Bucky whispers.  


Daddy brushes his hair away from his face.  “We’ll figure it out together,” he promises.  “But not with belts.”


	72. Land Shark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: Anything where bucky gets carried by steve?/ idk maybe he's fallen asleep/is sleepy or just wants to be lifted or anything, you can decide, but that's my jam, heck yeah, super soldiers lifting little super soldiers.

“Happy birthday,” Bucky mumbles, resting his head on Daddy’s shoulder.  His eyes are starting to drift shut, but then a firework bangs somewhere off in the distance.  


Daddy checks his watch.  “It’s not my birthday anymore,” he says.  “And it’s way past your bedtime.”

They’re on the roof of the penthouse.  Tony had brought everybody up here to show them fireworks after they watched _Sharknado_.  His fireworks were really cool, but a bunch of other people in the city had been setting them off too, so once Tony’s were done, they all sat around watching fireworks off in the distance.  One by one, everybody else had wandered back inside until it was just Bucky and Daddy.

“Not sleepy,” Bucky mumbles, letting his eyes close.  


“Really?” Daddy asks.  He sounds like he’s smiling.  “Either way, your doctors aren’t gonna be happy with me.  Come on, get up.”  


“Can’t walk,” Bucky says.  “Sharks’ll get me.”  He’s not really afraid of sharks, not unless he’s in water.  But he doesn’t want to move.  


“There aren’t any tornadoes around, Buck.”  


“Clint says land sharks exist.”  Bucky yawns.  “And I can’t walk.”

He feels Daddy reposition Bucky Bear in his arms to be more secure.  Then Daddy’s repositioning _him_ , picking him up.

Bucky smiles.  He snuggles up closer to Daddy’s chest, and he’s asleep before they even get inside.


	73. Hide and Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: What if Bucky accidentally broke a glass or something while he was an adult but it triggered him into being little and thinking he was going to be punished forcing him to hide and everyone having to look for him throughout the tower?

“There you are,” Pepper says softly.  


Bucky doesn’t move, lying flat under the bed.  Maybe if he just holds really still, she’ll decide he’s not actually there.  It’s hard to stay still.  He itches.

“No one’s mad at you, Bucky,” Pepper says.  “I promise.  Rhodey shouldn’t have put his glass that close to the edge of the coffee table anyway.  You’re not in trouble.”  


Bucky’s heart is still pounding.  He forgot where he was when he heard the glass break.  He thought he was back with his last daddy.

Next to the bed, Pepper’s lying down too.  She’s on her side, facing him.  “You don’t have to come out right now,” she says.  “We just wanted to be sure that you were okay.  That you didn’t accidentally hurt yourself or anything.  No one else will come in if you don’t want them to.”

“I can’t come out,” Bucky whispers, even though he wants to.  He’s cold and miserable.  


“That’s okay.  Take all the time you need.”  


Bucky shakes his head.  There’s dust on the bottom of the box spring and he has to fight back a sneeze.  “I can’t come out.”  His face is all red.  “I got scared and…and…”

“Do you want me to get you some new clothes?” Pepper asks.  


But then everyone would _know_.

“It can be our secret,” Pepper adds, and Bucky turns his head to face her as he slowly, shyly nods.  


By the end of the week, there’s a new glass in the cupboard to replace the one that got broken.  There’s also a vase of flowers on morning on Pepper’s vanity.  Tony asks about them, but JARVIS says it’s a secret.


	74. A Beary Serious Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: Do any of the other adults ever catch adult Bucky talking to Bucky bear and if they do are they ever just like wtf? I bet it would be especially interesting if Rumlow saw him arguing with Bucky bear or something.

“They are not either too cute,” Barnes says.  


Rumlow glances away from his laptop.  “What?”

“Nothing.”  The man’s face twinges, but he doesn’t elaborate, scowling when Rumlow continues to stare.  “Just watch the movie.”  


With a shrug, Rumlow steals a handful of popcorn.  Within a couple of minutes, his concentration is entirely back on _Return of the Jedi._

“It’s a movie for kids,” Barnes says.  He sounds annoyed.  


Rumlow sneaks another look at him—and some more popcorn, like he’s passing that chance up—and blinks to find what’s supposed to be the adult frowning at his bear.

“Kids’ movies are _supposed_  to have cute stuff,” Barnes is saying.  “Besides, the ewoks are taking out stormtroopers.  When did you ever take out a stormtrooper, tough guy?”  


The bear says nothing because it’s a fucking bear.

“You didn’t take out Darth Vader, you took out Red Panda pretending to be Darth Vader.  Big difference.”  


“Uh,” says Rumlow.  “You want me to pause the movie while you two sort this out?”  


“Shut the fuck up, Rumlow,” Barnes snaps, and Bucky Bear must be in agreement, because they’re both silent, eyes on the screen, for the rest of the film.  



	75. Helpful Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: Could you please write something where one of the Avengers's niece or something visits and has a bunny stuffed animal?

“Uncle Bucky?” Freddie asks, knocking on the doors of the closet.  She’s shouting more than asking, really, but that’s how she always sounds.  “Are you in there?”  


“No.”  The cramped space reeks of mothballs.  He’s going to suffocate.  He could barely handle a day with his family when they’d had a zoo and all the Avengers to distract them.  Why did he think flying out for Thanksgiving was a good idea?  


“Grandma Becca says you have to come out of the closet,” Freddie announces.  


“I _can’t_.”  


“Aunt Laura made Emma put away her rabbit.”  


Bucky can’t speak.  He thought his family might actually see him as something besides a crazy, broken weapon, and then he had a breakdown over a stuffed animal.

“Are you scared, Uncle Bucky?” Freddie asks.  


“Yeah.”  


“Mommy says you’re supposed to try and think helpful thoughts if you’re scared,” she says.  He can hear her tossing Toothless up and down outside the door.  “So if you’re worried about drowning, then you’re supposed to think about how you know how to swim and there are people around to help.”

Bucky doesn’t ask what you’re supposed to do if you’re afraid of something stupid.

“There are a lot of people around to keep you away from rabbits,” Freddie continues.  “And I just looked up information about rabbits on Mommy’s phone.  If you charge at them, they freeze.  It’s how they hide from predators.  If a predator gets too close, they run, but before that they won’t move at all.  I can run at any rabbits that bother you.”  


Bucky slides the door open, and he’s surprised to find that his hand is steady when he pushes the door along its track.  “Thanks.”


	76. All the Single Ladies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: I think it would be cool if when Brock is maybe trying to make it up to the kid or something and is going back to his apartment carrying bags of cheap kids food/juice boxes or whatever and runs into a neighbour and soon the whole building thinks he's a divorced dad or something. some of the single moms want a piece of him despite his shitty behaviour think he's playing hard to get or something lol

Rumlow hasn’t got a clue how it started.  Maybe the neighbors heard him playing kiddie shows on his laptop through the paper-thin walls.  Maybe they heard the scary good imitation of a kid’s voice that Barnes does.

He’s carrying home beer from the corner store one day when one of the teens in his building stops him in the stairwell.  “I babysit,” she says, smiling.

“Good for you,” Rumlow manages, confused, and then stalks up to his room.  


The day he gets the sippy cup to make sure the kid won’t sob if he knocks over a drink, he ends up in front of one of his neighbors in the line for the register.

“How old’s your kid?” she asks, glancing at his purchase.

Rumlow mutters something that doesn’t even come close to English and shuffles ahead in the line.

He’s hauling his trash to the dumpster when a single mom from the floor above him almost pins Rumlow against the metal.  So this is how he dies.  Having his head bashed in by a HYDRA-hating woman who couldn’t even be bothered to swap her pajama pants for real clothes before she did the deed.

“I just want you to know,” she says, in a voice that suggests she _eats_ cigarettes, “that most men can’t get off their ass to pay child support, never mind share custody.”

“Uh,” says Rumlow.  


“All this time I thought you were some kind of asshole hermit,” the woman continues.  “Your kid ever becomes too much of a hassle to deal with on your own, you let me know.”  


After that, it’s relentless.  Women winking at him, asking if he needs coupons for Lunchables or Huggies, slapping his ass in the stairwell.  A few of the guys get in on the act as well.

A week of this later, and he dives into the sanctuary of his apartment to find Barnes sprawled on the couch.

“I want cookies,” he says, playing with his phone.  


“I swear to God, Winter.”  Rumlow shakes his head.  “You’re gonna be the death of me.”  


“Was that ever in doubt?”  



	77. Public Displays of Alcoholism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: I totally think you should write an interlude about a tipsy Rumlow trying to cuddle Bucky!

“Bucky Bear says you’re drunk,” Bucky says.  His voice is muffled because the Commander’s pulled him so close he can barely see over the man’s shoulder.  


“Bears dunno the difference between drunk and buzzed,” the Commander says.  He ruffles Bucky’s hair, the beer can in his hand brushing against Bucky’s head a couple of times.  


“Bears know a lot about buzzing,” Bucky protests.  “They know a lot about bees.”  


He’s not sure why that makes the Commander let go and almost fold in half, laughing really hard, but it does.  He’s wiping tears away when he stops.  Then he’s wiping the hair out of Bucky’s face and kissing his forehead.  “Don’t ever change, Winter.”

Bucky Bear gives a big, long huff when the Commander cuddles up to him, but Bucky can tell that he likes it too.


	78. Performance Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: Steve insisting on patching up Little Bucky every time he gets a minor scrape. Little Bucky discovering that they make character-themed band-aids and deciding that said band-aids are now stickers. Adult Bucky forgetting he's covered in Hello Kitty and Princess Ariel and getting a lot of strange looks until he realizes.

“Here you go,” Daddy says.  He puts the band-aid on Bucky’s shoulder, kissing it once he’s done.  


Bucky had been playing tag with Natasha.  Then he turned a corner and hit the wall by mistake.  There’s a hole in the plaster now, and Bucky got scraped up.

He frowns at the band-aid.  Part of it’s on his prosthetic, and the peach tone looks all wrong next to the metal.  “It doesn’t match.”

“You’re right,” Daddy says.  


At the store, they have dozens of different band-aids.  Neon colors, every skin tone, and all the shades in the rainbow.  But there are even more band-aids than just that.  Avengers band-aids.  Disney princess band-aids.  Hello Kitty band-aids.  They buy a box of every kind.

When they get back, Bucky has to show them to Tasha.

*

“What?” Bucky demands, looking up from his plate.  Tony’s been gaping at him ever since he sat down at the table.  


“Nothing,” Tony says, although it’s clearly something.  “Just, uh, wondering if that’s a fashion statement.  That’s all.”  


Bucky’s about to ask what the hell he’s talking about when he looks at his own hand.  Really looks at it.

The metal is plastered with Hello Kitties.  The right hand, Avengers.

And there are Disney princesses all over his face, which is now burning.

Great.  Fucking fantastic.  He’d forgot that he and Tasha decided earlier that band-aids were now stickers, and here he is, looking like a complete idiot in front of everyone he knows.  Wonderful.

“It’s—”

Natasha cuts him off.  “With all the time Pepper spent putting together a collection for you,” she says smoothly, “I’d think you would recognize a work of art.”

“Oh?” Tony asks.  He’s smiling.  “And tell me, Pippi, what’s the artistic statement in slapping licensed characters all over the cyborg?”  


“It’s a protest piece,” says Natasha.  “Made in response to the toy companies manufacturing Bucky Bears again.  It’s a statement about the commercialization of suffering, and the choice of canvas makes it all the more poignant.”

“Don’t expect me to stand around a gallery.”  Bucky sucks on his smoothie.  “I don’t have the patience.”   



	79. The Doctor Is In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: I was wondering if you could do an interlude with Steve talking to his therapist (you don't actively mention if he has one, or at least if he has one currently, but it seems like he might) about his own struggles and insecurities in helping Bucky?

“Captain Rogers.”  Dr. Barnett looks up from his notebook.  “Take a seat.”  


“I’m sorry,” Steve says, flushing.  He closes the door but doesn’t move to sit.  What’s the point?  It’ll just be a waste of whatever time’s left in the session.  “I’m so sorry, traffic was at a standstill and I meant to call, but I must have left my phone back at the tower and—”

“Captain Rogers.”  The doctor sets down the notepad.

“—sure you’d think I wasn’t going to show up, and that I’d wasted your time, and I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll just make another appointment with the receptionist on the way out—”

“Captain Rogers, you’re five minutes early.”

Steve blinks, then glances at the wall clock.  “The car radio must have been set an hour ahead,” he mutters, face burning.  Wonderful.  His very first session and now he’s made himself look like an idiot.  


“Why don’t you take a seat?” Dr. Barnett offers, and to Steve’s relief, there’s no therapy couch.  Only chairs.  


He settles into one.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“Well, that’s good.”  The doctor smiles.  “Because you haven’t.”  


Steve just shifts in the chair, silent.

Dr. Barnett picks up a small stack of papers on the desk, flipping through them.  “Now, you’ve already faxed in the patient information and consent forms,” he says.  “Did you have any questions about those, Captain Rogers?”

“You can call me Steve.”  


“All right then.”  He smiles again.  “Any questions, Steve?”  


Steve can’t keep from cursing in his mind.  Great.  He’s failed to answer one simple question.  There’s a perception in some of the public of Captain America being nothing but a muscle-bound propaganda figure, and he’s certainly living up to that.  “Uh, no.  It all made sense.”

Dr. Barnett nods.  “Okay.  I’d like to start with a question for you, if that’s all right.  It’s one that I ask all my patients.”

There’s a moment of silence before Steve realizes the man’s awaiting a response.  He nods quickly.

“What is it that you hope to get out of these sessions?”  


Where to start?  “I—I was hoping to…”  And then he just trails off.  Great.  Can’t even get past step one.  “I want…”

“You can take all the time you need,” Dr. Barnett says.  “I won’t be bothered if it takes a minute to gather your thoughts.”  


“No, it’s okay,” Steve insists.  “It’s just—just a lot of things, you know?  Sam’s been telling me for months now, ever since we found Bucky, that I need a therapist, that’s he too close to everything to offer objective advice and be sure I’ll take it, and I know Bucky’s doctors think I ought to be talking to someone, and I clearly can’t handle things on my own because I’ve consistently made Bucky’s problems worse ever since he got here and—”

“Steve,” Dr. Barnett says gently.  “What is it that _you_  want out of our sessions?  Not for your friends, but for yourself?”

A full minute ticks by on the clock.  


“I don’t know,” Steve admits, fighting the urge to hide his face in his hands.  


“All right,” says the doctor.  “Why don’t we start there?”  



	80. Dancing Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: Bucky meeting the Maximoff twins (and Wanda being able to read Bucky's mind and being able to understand how he thinks?)
> 
> The back story for the Maximoffs is somewhat different here than in _Avengers: Age of Ultron_. Having characters who are Magneto's children in the comics and who are still Roma and Jewish in my headcanons for the MCU volunteer to be experimented on by what was once a Nazi division didn't sit right with me, so I've changed a bit of the story.

Bucky Bear is moving.

Bucky’s hiding in his bedroom because of the strangers in the tower.  A few weeks ago, the Avengers went on a mission to Sokovia and found Loki’s scepter in a HYDRA base.  But they also found a pair of twins that HYDRA had captured and experimented on, and set them free.

That should have been the end of it, but there were all kinds of problems after the mission.  First, Tony and Bruce were trying to use Loki’s scepter to make some sort of special technology, but Pepper said no.  And then it turned out that the twins HYDRA captured didn’t like Tony because his weapons killed their parents, so they attacked the Avengers.  And the girl twin could get inside people’s heads and make them see things.  She could _read their thoughts._

HYDRA was scary enough when they had to use machines to mess with people’s heads.

Clint got the twins to stop fighting.  Bucky isn’t really sure how.  All he knows is that now they’re in the tower while they decide what they want to do next, and so Bucky’s hiding.  He doesn’t want to be around a mind reader.  He doesn’t want to be around people who hurt his friends.

So he’s been hiding in his room for two days, and everything was fine until Bucky Bear started moving.

Bucky had been filling in an ankylosaurus in his dinosaur coloring book when something shifted in the corner of his eye.  At the foot of the bed, Bucky Bear’s standing up.  Not only that, but he’s moving.  Walking around.  And it seems like there’s a windstorm in the room, gusting back and forth so fast and fluttering the pages of the coloring book.

Maybe the twins were just pretending to stop fighting.  Maybe they just wanted to get in here and make everyone crazy.

Bucky whimpers, shuffling back against his headboard.  He opens his mouth to scream.

Except then Bucky Bear starts dancing.  Bucky thinks he’s doing the Charleston, but it’s hard to be sure since Bucky Bear doesn’t have elbows or knees.  His movements are jerky, but just fluid enough to count as dancing.

It doesn’t make any sense, but Bucky feels a smile on his face anyway.

Then the wind and the dancing stop, and there’s a blond man with dark, scruffy stubble holding Bucky Bear’s paws.

Bucky stops smiling, grabbing a pillow like it can shield him.  He has to rescue Bucky Bear, but his hands are shaking and the rest of him won’t move.

“I could make him twerk,” the man offers.  He has an accent that Bucky guesses is Sokovian.  


Bucky finds his voice.  “He wouldn’t like that.”

The man sets Bucky Bear down.  “That’s a shame.”

“How did you do that?” Bucky whispers.  His knuckles are still white on the pillow.  


The man smiles.  “I’m fast,” he explains.  “I can run by and pose him over and over, quick enough that it looks as if he’s moving.  Pietro.”  He offers his hand.

Bucky sort of takes it, in that only his fingertips make contact.  “Bucky,” he mumbles.  “And that’s Bucky Bear.”

Pietro shakes Bucky Bear’s paw.  “Pleased to meet you, Bucky Bear.”

“Why did you make my bear dance?” Bucky asks because that’s what Bucky Bear’s demanding to know.  


“You seemed sad.”  


Pietro doesn’t say it.  It’s a woman’s voice, with the same accent, and Bucky turns his head to see a dark-haired woman standing in the doorway.

The telepath.

He yelps, diving off the bed and running into his closet.

“Don’t be frightened,” the woman says as Bucky pulls a coat from the hanger and hides under it.  


“Go away,” Bucky whispers.  


“My name is Wanda,” she says.  “I could sense your distress from the moment we set foot inside.”  


“I don’t like people messing with my head!”  


“I will not mess with your head.”  Wanda’s voice is soft.  “But someone has in the past, yes?  You were one of HYDRA’s as well?”  


“I’m not HYDRA!” Bucky snaps.  “I hate HYDRA!”  


“We do as well.”  Pietro’s voice now.  


“And I will not make you suffer as they did,” Wanda adds.  “You have nothing to fear from us now.  You don’t have to hide.”  


Bucky peeks out from under the coat.  Hiding still sounds like the best plan.

“Pietro,” Wanda says.  “Give him his bear.”  


There’s wind again, and then the bear is in his hands.

“How come your insides don’t smash against your bones when you stop moving so fast?” Bucky asks.  


Pietro smiles.  “Why don’t you come out so I can explain it?”

And Bucky does.


	81. I've Outgrown You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude requires a bit of explanation. I've written [two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/9571044) [interludes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/9615594) about how things might have gone if Pierce had lived. Then, the brilliant and somewhat evil [WhatEvenAmI](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI) wrote [a wonderful and completely heartbreaking story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4195374/chapters/11940773) about what might have happened in a Pierce lived AU if Pierce got Bucky back under his control. I fully recommend that you read that, provided you have some free time to sob uncontrollably.
> 
> I did sob uncontrollably, and especially for Bucky Bear. So then I had to write this story and give Bucky Bear some much needed love.
> 
> There is some talk of starvation in this interlude, though it's not the focus.

Everybody said no. 

Daddy said no. The Commander said no. His doctors, well, they didn’t say no, but they did say they thought it would have “negative effects on his recovery.” 

Bucky doesn’t care about his recovery. He cares about his other daddy, locked up all alone in a tiny, boring cell. He must be so lonely. It’s mean to keep somebody closed off like that. He’ll be _such_ a bad boy if he doesn’t see his daddy again. 

“You’re not bad, Bucky,” Daddy says. He gives Bucky a Kleenex, his other hand carding through Bucky’s hair. “He’s bad _for_ you. He’ll try to use you to do bad things.” 

Bucky pushes the Kleenex up against his eyes. It doesn’t even take a minute for it to soak through. “He can’t do bad stuff when he’s locked up. All he can do is be sad.” 

Daddy hugs him really tight. It feels good, but it’s not _enough._ Not anymore. And Bucky knows that’s selfish and bad, but he can’t help it. His other daddy needs him. If people get lonely enough, they can get sick and even _die_ , like in his Beauty and the Beast book. The Beast only lived because Beauty came back just in time. 

Bucky’s already killed so many people. He can’t add his daddy to the blood on his hands. 

“He’s locked up because he hurt a lot of people and wanted to hurt even more,” Daddy says firmly. “And it’s not like when he made you hurt people, lamb. He knew what he was doing and no one was making him do it. And he’s _smart,_ Buck. He’ll try to use you.” 

Bucky’s sniffle becomes a sob. “He loved me! I know he used me for stuff and that was bad, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t love me! You just don’t want to believe he really cared and it’s not fair!” 

“I don’t care about fair.” Daddy kisses his forehead. “I care about keeping you safe.” 

“Bucky Bear wants to meet him,” Bucky pleads. 

“Bucky Bear wouldn’t like him.” 

Bucky shakes his head. Daddy doesn’t know anything. 

*

“One more time,” Daddy says. 

Bucky nods, squeezing Bucky Bear tight. One more time, one last visit to his old daddy. And then nothing bad will happen, and Daddy will see that he was worried for nothing, and one more time will turn into two more times, and then three, and then as many as he needs. And everybody can be happy. 

Nobody’s happy now except for Bucky. He had to stop eating to get Daddy to agree to even one more time. Daddy had begged him to eat, and so had Tasha and Pepper and everybody else in the tower, including the other bears. Bucky Bear had said that Bucky had to stop. He would make himself sick and make everybody sad. 

Bucky said that sometimes, sacrifices had to be made. 

Daddy had _cried_ , and that hurt a lot, but his other daddy is probably crying in that cell every day that he doesn’t get to see anybody. Cornelius and Miriam said that if Bucky didn’t eat soon, he’d have to go to a hospital and get fed through tubes, and that was what made Daddy say “one more time.” Because that’s how HYDRA made Bucky eat, and Daddy couldn’t do it. 

Tasha comes this time. So do Cornelius and Miriam. Everybody looks so stone-faced and worried in the car, and Bucky tries not to roll his eyes at Bucky Bear. He knows they care, but it’s so _silly_. His other daddy isn’t going to hurt him. It’s not like he could even if he wanted to; there are so many guards and stuff. And he isn’t going to. He said he wasn’t mad at Bucky last time Bucky came here. 

Bucky Bear’s nervous too, even though Bucky keeps squeezing his feet to try and tell him things are fine. Probably he thinks that Bucky’s other daddy won’t like him, but he doesn’t need to be scared. Last time Bucky visited, Daddy even said that Bucky Bear sounded like a very good bear. Besides, everybody loves Bucky Bear. Even SHIELD agents like Skye like him. 

Even Bucky feels a twinge of fear when he steps into Daddy’s cell. It’s been weeks since last time he came to see him. What if Daddy thought Bucky stopped loving him? What if he’s mad? 

But Daddy says, “Hello sweetheart,” just like last time. And just like last time, he holds out his arms for a hug, and Bucky squeezes tight. 

“And who’s this?” Daddy asks once he pulls away. 

“Bucky Bear,” Bucky says. He wants to hold him out so Daddy can see him, but Bucky Bear is really shy all of a sudden and is trying to hide behind Bucky’s metal arm. 

“Oh,” Daddy says. “So this is the bear you told me about. Hello, Bucky Bear.” 

He holds out his hand, so Bucky makes the bear turn around so he can shake. 

Daddy smiles. He holds Bucky Bear’s paw. Then he touches his nose, which Bucky Bear usually likes, but Bucky Bear’s too nervous right now to like much of anything. 

“His ears are sensitive,” Bucky says, just in case Daddy was thinking of touching those. 

“I see,” Daddy says. He kind of laughs when he says it, and pulls his hand away. “What else have you got?” 

“Dinosaurs,” Bucky mumbles, setting the coloring book he brought down on the bed. “I thought maybe your room wouldn’t be so empty if it had pictures.” But now that he says it, it seems dumb. Daddy’s house had all kinds of really pretty art in it. Why would he want some crayon drawings? 

But Daddy’s still smiling, brushing the hair out of Bucky’s eyes. “You’re so thoughtful, little one.” 

They color. Usually Bucky Bear has lots of opinions about what crayons should be used, and where, but Bucky Bear isn’t very focused on the pages today. He wants to go back outside and see Bucky’s other daddy. He wants to go home. Bucky can’t understand it. It’s not like Daddy didn’t like Bucky Bear. 

_I don’t like his laugh,_ Bucky Bear says. _He was laughing at me._

And no matter how much Bucky tries to tell him that Daddy’s laugh isn’t bad, just different, Bucky Bear’s stuffing is still so twisted up. 

“Tell me about the kind of things you do now,” Daddy says after a while. He’s still on his first coloring page. He colors very carefully. “Do you and Captain America work for SHIELD?” 

“Uh-uh.” Bucky ducks his head down to hide his blush. He doesn’t _want_ to go on missions anymore, but that doesn’t keep him from feeling like he should. “The Avengers don’t really work for anybody. And, uh, and the last mission I went on, um. Was the one you sent me on, I guess. But I do stuff at the tower!” he adds quickly. “And I still spar and stuff.” 

“It sounds like you’re keeping busy.” 

Bucky nods. Bucky Bear says that Daddy sounds judgmental. Bucky Bear says that he’s hungry, and when Bucky squeezes his foot, it doesn’t help. 

“What’s wrong?” Daddy asks. “You’re so quiet.” 

“Bucky Bear’s hungry,” he mumbles. Bucky Bear’s really fussy today. “He can wait.” 

“He shouldn’t have to,” Daddy says. His voice is really quiet, so quiet that Bucky has to lean in a little to hear it, even with his super-soldier ears. “We should get him some food.” 

“Will they bring honey?” Bucky whispers. He figures that if Daddy’s being so quiet, he should be quiet too. 

“We can go get it.” 

Bucky can feel his eyebrows draw together. Daddy isn’t allowed out. And Bucky’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be. Insight was going to hurt so many—

“ _Amā,_ ” Daddy whispers, right up against Bucky’s ear. 

Bucky Bear’s saying something, but Bucky can’t hear him. For a second, his heart is so loud, his vision cloudy, but then it passes. He feels calm and loose and safe. “ _Amō._ ” _I love._ And he does. 

“How many people are outside this room?” Daddy mutters. 

Bucky leans closer, resting his head on Daddy’s shoulder. “There’s my other daddy and Tasha and the doctors and Agent Coulson. And two guards right outside, and another three on the way out.” 

_Bucky,_ says Bucky Bear. 

“Good boy,” Daddy says, and Bucky could just melt. 

_Bucky!_ says Bucky Bear. 

Bucky blinks. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Daddy says. “You’ll go out without me—”

Bucky’s hand, the right hand, which is soft and warm like little boys are meant to be, squeezes hard on Daddy’s. 

“Just for a little bit,” Daddy soothes. “You’ll pretend like you’re going to go, okay? Then you need to get one of the guard’s guns and hold Agent Coulson hostage so they’ll open the door again.” 

_You’re not supposed to touch guns,_ Bucky Bear says, and he tenses. His other daddy looks so sad and scared when Bucky was holding a knife. How will he look if Bucky has a gun? 

“Shh,” Daddy says. “It’ll be easy. Be a good boy.” 

He wants to be good. He wants Daddy to be happy and to love him and to be with him all the time. 

_Your other daddy won’t be happy,_ Bucky Bear says. _He’ll make you hurt Daddy and Tasha and everyone else to get out._

Bucky freezes again. He doesn’t want to hurt his friends. But he doesn’t want to hurt Daddy either. And Daddy will be so hurt if Bucky abandons him. Plus, he’ll be mad. And Bucky will be in trouble. 

“Snowflake,” Daddy murmurs. 

_You won’t be in trouble,_ Bucky Bear insists. _We’re going home and we’re not coming back._

Bucky feels his eyes well up with tears. He doesn’t want that either. 

_He wants you to hurt people,_ Bucky Bear says. _And once you get away, he’ll make you hurt more people and probably give you maintenance. He’s not a good daddy._

And Bucky wants to grab the bear and throw him across the room. He can’t talk about Daddy that way. Daddy _loves_ Bucky. He wouldn’t hurt him. 

Daddy’s saying something else. Maybe in Latin. But Bucky’s heart is too loud again to hear it. 

_Your doctors said that trigger words and missions aren’t love!_ Bucky Bear’s talking so fast. His voice is shaky. _They said good daddies don’t play bad games. Your real daddy doesn’t play that way. He doesn’t make you take people hostage._ Please, _Bucky. We need to go home._

“Sweetheart,” Daddy begins. 

“No!” 

Bucky’s standing up. He doesn’t remember doing that. His daddy’s shifting back, and Bucky Bear’s in Bucky’s arms. He’s squeezing the bear so tight that Bucky Bear’s almost squished flat against him. “No!” he shouts. “You can’t make me hurt anybody anymore! Bucky Bear won’t let you, and neither will Daddy or SHIELD or anybody else!” 

Daddy glares at him. It’s so, _so_ scary and it hurts so much, and all Bucky wants to do is cry and fall down and beg Daddy not to be mad at him. But Bucky Bear feels solid in his arms and _big_ , almost like a real bear, and nothing can hurt him when he has an actual bear to help. “You little—”

Bucky spins around, looking at the two way mirror. He can’t see anybody outside, but they can see him. “He said something to me in Latin,” Bucky shouts. “A trigger word. He might have said more. I need to be sedated as soon as I come out to make sure I don’t hurt anybody.” 

Bucky Bear doesn’t feel so big in his arms anymore, even though he’s the one telling Bucky what to say. Bucky Bear’s afraid of sedatives. He’s afraid of doctors, and there’s going to be a lot of doctors after this. Bucky Bear knows it. But it’ll keep everybody safe, and that’s what matters. 

Now Bucky Bear says to go straight to the door, but Bucky doesn’t listen. He turns around again, and Daddy looks like he wants to kill him. 

“I loved you before you ordered me to love you,” Bucky says. “But you never really cared. You just wanted to hurt me and make me hurt other people, and you want to do it again.” 

Daddy opens his mouth, probably to say something else in Latin, but Bucky doesn’t let him. “Shut up!” he says, and he slams the metal hand against the wall. It puts cracks all through the concrete. “Even if you ever cared, you still hurt me all the time and made me do horrible things! You used to fool me, because I didn’t have anything else. But I do now, and you’re an awful daddy, and I’m never going to see you again. And I’m glad!” 

Bucky isn’t sure how they get out. Even through the drugs, he can tell that SHIELD doesn’t want them to go. They think Bucky’s dangerous and they want to observe him. But Daddy brought his shield, and somehow or another they get back to the car. It’s just Bucky and Bucky Bear and Cornelius and Miriam now. Daddy and Tasha called Tony to come get him. 

It takes a long time with the doctors before they say it’s safe for him to see Daddy. They say he was very brave and that Bucky Bear’s a very, very good bear. They even thank Bucky Bear for keeping him safe. 

So does Tasha. And Pepper, Tony, Sam, Bruce, and Clint. And Daddy. 

Bucky clings to Daddy when Daddy comes in, and he can feel tears spilling down his face. “I should have listened,” he sobs. “You were right. Bucky Bear listened and I didn’t, and you almost got really hurt!” 

“I didn’t get hurt,” Daddy soothes, holding Bucky tight. “Bucky Bear kept you safe. He kept all of us safe. And I'm proud of you too, Bucky. You listened to your bear.” 

“Bucky Bear wants a hug,” Bucky mumbles. He squirms free so he can wipe at his eyes. 

Daddy kisses Bucky Bear’s nose and hugs him for ten minutes straight. 

And then everybody else does too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152680774@N07/35909576906/in/dateposted-public/)


	82. Bucky the Red-Nosed Bearvenger

“Kid?” Clint asks. “Bucky? Where’d you go, little guy?”

Silence. Great. His first time watching Bucky while the rest of the team’s off fighting, and he’s already lost him. It’s only been like a hour. Nat’s never going to let him live this down, and that’s assuming that Cap doesn’t kill him immediately.

“Bucky?” Clint actually whistles as though he’s calling for Lucky, cringing when he realizes what he’s doing. In his defense, their names rhyme. “You want cookies? We can make cookies.”

Nothing.

 **MASTER BARNES IS UNDER HIS BED, AGENT BARTON,** JARVIS says quietly.

One of these days, Clint’s going to remember that JARVIS has all the answers before he freaks out. One day.

The kid’s feet and half of his legs are still sticking out, because he’s lying perpendicular to the length of the mattress, like he’s forgotten that he’s not child-sized. He probably has.

“Bucky?” Clint asks softly. There could be any number of things going on here. Probably, the kid’s upset and missing Steve. But maybe he had a traumatic flashback or an accident. Maybe he’s snapped and gone all _Pet Semetary_ , and he’s waiting under the bed to slash at Clint’s ankles.

Clint couldn’t go toe to toe with the Winter Soldier even before he broke his wrist.

“Bucky?” he asks, settling down on the floor. “You want to take Lucky for a walk with me?”

Bucky isn’t allowed out of the tower, but they can walk Lucky around the gym.

“Bucky Bear feels bad,” the kid says, his words muffled.

“Yeah?” Clint says. “What’s the matter? I’m trained in first aid, you know. I can totally handle all kinds of bear procedures.”

Bucky abruptly wails, and Clint jumps, jostling his casted arm and making it sting. “His nose is wrong!”

“What?” Clint says, holding back a swear and rubbing at his wrist. “What do you mean?”

“JARVIS was showing us bear videos and documentaries and stuff so Bucky Bear could practice his hunting techniques but all those bears have black noses! We even Googled it and the Internet says there aren’t bears with red noses!” He sniffles. “Bucky Bear says he can’t be a bear anymore!”

“Hey, whoa. Breathe for me, Bucky, okay? Come on out, it’s all right.”

It takes several minutes for Bucky to shuffle out from under the bed. He has his bear pressed against his chest so the nose is hidden, and his face is streaked with tears.

“There’s nothing wrong with having a red nose,” Clint tries. “I mean, most bears don’t wear jackets or masks either, right? Bucky Bear’s just special.”

“He wants to be a good bear!” Bucky insists. “He doesn’t want to be wrong and weird.”

Clint bites his lip, thinking. “Here,” he says, struck with inspiration. “Get up. We’re gonna watch a movie.”

“But Bucky Bear—”

“Bucky Bear will love this. Promise.”

*

“First stop,” Santa says, “the Island of Misfit Toys! Up, up and away!”

Rudolph, with his nose glowing at full power, lifts off, and the other reindeer follow suit.

Bucky’s smile is almost as blinding at the reindeer’s nose.

“How’s Bucky Bear?” Clint asks.

“He’s okay,” Bucky says, still staring transfixed at the screen.

“Great.” Clint stands up and slips into his closet, rummaging around for a few minutes. The credits are rolling by the time he returns with a reindeer antler headband and snaps it onto Bucky Bear’s head.

“Uh,” Bucky says. “What’s that?”

“It’s antlers!” Clint says, giving them a pat. “You wear them around Christmas, you know, at parties and stuff. I figured we could let Bucky Bear guide the Avengers’ sleigh. Or Quinjet. Or whatever. Does he just love them?”

“He’s growling,” Bucky reports.

“Your bear is impossible to please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152680774@N07/35818379861/in/dateposted-public/)


	83. Bears on Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As inspired by my recent case of strep throat, and also by this ask on Tumblr: "Oh man, a demanding and sick Bucky Bear being continuously nursed by a very patient Steve, who agrees to keep a steady supply of ice packs coming but refuses to put the bear in the freezer. Sick Bucky Bear being cajoled into a little bear bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. (And snapping that Hawkbear and Iron Bear are to stop that laughter this instant.)"

“Don’t feel bad, Bucky Bear,” Captain Rogers says, settling the bear back onto his ice pack.  “I’ll go get them and make them apologize.”  


Bucky Bear doesn’t want Hawkbear and Iron Bear to apologize for laughing.  He wants them to fall into a deep well, or maybe an active fireplace.  He wants them to feel achey and cold and have to wear stupid bathrobes and slippers like the ones they were laughing at.

And he doesn’t want the Captain to go.

Bucky’s hand, pale and shivering, emerges from under the blanket to grab the Captain’s wrist.  “Don’t go,” he pleads.  His eyes are glassy and dull.  “Bucky Bear wants you to stay, Daddy.”

“Oh?”  With his other hand, Captain Rogers adjusts the washcloth on Bucky’s forehead.  “What would help him feel better?”  


“He wants the freezer,” Bucky says.  Then he coughs, and it shakes the mattress.  


“He has an ice pack,” the Captain says.  His voice is firm.  “Bears don’t belong in freezers, and neither do sick little boys.”  


“Broken things do,” Bucky insists.  “Please.”  


“You’re not broken.”  Captain Rogers settles down on the bed, jostling the mattress a little.  Bucky Bear slips off his ice pack, but the Captain rights him.  “And neither is Bucky Bear.  I’m going to stay right here with you, not leave you alone and cold.”

Bucky coughs again instead of answering.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” the Captain asks.  “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”  


Bucky Bear tries to shut his eyes, but they hurt.

“Can you read to us?” Bucky whispers.  


So the Captain starts reading about a brown bear, and Bucky Bear is asleep before he can hear about all the things that the bear sees.


	84. Reciprocity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by ask requesting that I write Snowflake meeting the Bucky from [osprey_archer's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer) brilliant series [Reciprocity](http://archiveofourown.org/series/161309). If you have not read Reciprocity, you definitely should. It's my favorite Captain America fan fic series of all time. It's heartbreaking and hilarious and beautiful and horrifying and just everything you could ever want.
> 
> With that said, I've tried to write this interlude so that it will make sense even if you haven't read that series [which you should].

Bucky scowls, rifling through his dresser. “Why did the other me have to be stupid?”

“He’s not stupid, Buck,” Steve says. He glances down the hallway and shuts the door.

“He threw up all over himself.”

“He couldn’t help that.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, grabbing one of his shirts. Of course Steve doesn’t mind that the other Bucky puked everywhere. He must _love_ the other Bucky: all sniffling and clinging and apologizing. He’s everything Steve could ever want. “He better not get sick on my clothes.”

“He won’t, Bucky.”

The doppelganger’s going to be swimming in Bucky’s clothes, anyway. He’s nowhere near fighting weight; there’s no way he can go on missions in his own world. Did Coulson completely break the doppelganger during his debriefing? Or did Pierce fry his brain?

Bucky stomps toward the hallway as Steve opens the door. “This sucks. I’ve read sci-fi. When doppelgangers meet, they’re supposed to fuck, not have a goddamn nervous breakdown.”

There’s a loud sob from the bathroom. Bucky doesn’t even have to look to know that Steve’s glaring at him.

It’s not fair. He was having a good day before Sam showed up with these idiots in tow. Apparently, they’d been in Central Park in their own world when a rogue Asgardian showed up and blasted them here. Why couldn’t they have ended up in New York instead of DC? They would have been Tony’s problem. Or even Coulson’s. The doppelgangers are clearly worthless, so he’d have no reason to keep them around the CIA.

“It’s all right,” the other Steve is saying in the bathroom. “You’re okay, Bucky. Nobody’s going to hurt you. We’re safe here.”

He scowls at the bullshit the other Steve is spewing. The scowl only deepens when the other Bucky doesn’t call it out.

“You’re okay, lamb,” the other Steve continues, and Bucky’s stomach gives a lurch. He can hear Pierce’s voice now. _You don’t understand, sweetheart. You hit your head so hard...just leave these things to me._

Maybe the other Bucky really is brain-damaged. It would explain a hell of a lot. And it would make him a little less contemptible. Besides, Bucky has experience with the some of the brain-damaged agents at the Home. And Fitz.

“They know you didn’t mean to get sick,” the other Steve says, as Bucky stops in the bathroom doorway with the change of clothes. “It’s all right.”

“But Daddy—”

“ _Daddy?_ ” Bucky repeats. “He calls you _Daddy_?”

Fitz never called Coulson that.

His doppelganger lets out a whimper that makes the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand on end, hiding his face in his hands. Bucky’s pretty sure he just crossed a line. But what the fuck?

“I can explain,” the other Steve says, hugging onto his Bucky.

“You don’t need to.” Bucky shoves his hands out, just wanting to drop off the clothes and get the fuck away, but the other Steve isn’t moving. “The other me’s fucked in the head. I get it.”

Another sob.

“Alexander Pierce ordered him to act like a little boy between missions,” the other Steve says. His voice is soft, but his eyes are cold, glaring. “He can’t help regressing now.”

_Sweetheart._

Bucky drops the clothes on the floor.

Maybe Pierce would have fucked him up that way too, if he could be bothered to put forth the effort. And then Bucky would be that weak and vulnerable, and everybody would be laughing at him. Coulson would have thrown him in some institution. A nice one, just so Steve would stick around with SHIELD.

“Bucky?” Steve asks.

Bucky runs out of the apartment. He makes it all the way to the street before he pukes.

*

“It’s not your fault,” the other Steve says.

Bucky sniffles, wiping at his eyes. He’s wearing the other Bucky’s too-big clothes and sitting on Daddy’s lap. He can’t stop crying.

“It’s really not your fault, Bucky.” The other Steve sounds nice, almost as nice as Daddy. “Bucky— _My_ Bucky does this sort of thing when he’s upset. He either gets angry, or he gets away. You didn’t scare him off.”

“I’m sorry,” Daddy says. “I should have explained earlier, I just—”

“There wasn’t time,” says the other Steve. “You were only here for a few minutes before, well—”

Before Bucky got sick all over. And messed everything up, like always.

He wipes at his eyes again. He misses Bucky Bear. They didn’t take Bucky Bear to the park because the news said it might rain later, and Bucky Bear hates getting wet. But now Bucky’s here and his bears are all back at home and lonely, and he’ll probably never see them again.

Maybe it’s better that way. The bears still have Tasha, and Bucky Bear would probably like the other Bucky better, because the other Bucky’s not a worthless crybaby.

But the other Bucky made Daddy mad. Bucky Bear wouldn’t like that.

“Hey,” says the other Steve. He kneels down in front of Bucky. He’s smiling, but it looks strained. He must think Bucky’s such a freak. “Here. Are you hungry? You’ve had a long day.”

“I—” His tummy still feels all knotted. What if he eats and he gets sick again? “I dunno.”

“My Bucky really like pancakes,” the other Steve says. “I can make you some pancakes, if you want?”

“Can they have chocolate chips?” Bucky whispers.

The other Steve’s smile doesn’t look so strained now. “Sure.”

The whole apartment smells like pancakes when the other Bucky comes back. He won’t look at anybody, and he stomps into his room and slams the door.

“What kind of syrup would you like?” asks the other Steve. “We have maple and blueberry. Or there’s honey, if you like that.”

Honey. Bucky Bear probably needs honey back home, and Bucky’s not there to give it to him. Bucky’s wiping at his eyes again.

“Buck?” Daddy says. He hugs on tight to Bucky. “What’s wrong?”

“I miss Bucky Bear.” His voice is all shaky and babyish and he hates it.

“Coulson has a Bucky Bear,” the other Steve says, almost to himself. “He collects anything that has to do with the Commandos.”

“You’re not breaking into Langley to steal a goddamn bear,” the other Bucky shouts from his bedroom.

Bucky flinches.

“It’s okay,” Daddy soothes, rocking him a little. “We’ll find a way to get in touch with Thor. I promise. We’ll be home soon.”

“We can find you a bear if you need one while you’re here,” the other Steve says. He’s stacking pancakes onto plates. “We can find a toy store. And then you could have a new bear to bring home, to tell Bucky Bear all about your adventures?”

Bucky can’t talk. The other Steve’s being so nice, but what if Bucky Bear doesn’t trust some weird bear from another world? What if they fight?

The other Bucky comes storming out of his bedroom, stopping right in front of the couch where Daddy and Bucky are sitting. He shoves his hands out roughly, but his voice is soft. “You wanna hold onto this for a while?”

There’s a little stuffed toy in the other Bucky’s hands. An otter, Bucky thinks. The otter’s lying on its back, with a little green leaf between its paw and a red, heart-shaped tag dangling from its ear.

Bucky reaches out to pick up the otter. It feels like it’s full of plastic beads. He gives it an experimental hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

The other Bucky just shrugs.

But he sits at the table while they eat pancakes, even if he doesn’t say much. And later, when the other Steve says they can watch a movie while he tries to call Tony so Tony can get a hold of Thor, the other Bucky lets Bucky pick.

And then he watches _The Little Mermaid_ with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The toy that Reciprocity!Bucky offers APSHDS!Bucky is [Seaweed the Otter,](http://www.amazon.com/Ty-Beanie-Babies-Seaweed-Otter/dp/B00H0JQDBE) a Beanie Baby that featured in one of the Reciprocity Hydra Preludes.


	85. The Closest This Series Will Probably Ever Come to Civil War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude does not contain any Civil War spoilers. It's just something I needed to make to soothe myself after seeing the trailer. Also, no spoilers in the comments, please.

Tony hears sobbing.

He tears his eyes away from the holographic blueprints he’s been tinkering with, glancing at the clock. Four AM. When did that happen? And how long has the coffee pot been empty?

Right. The crying. He should probably focus on that before the caffeine.

Except now there’s a wail, almost a scream, and Tony isn’t sure he’s going to be able to deal with such emotions at this time of the morning without coffee.

He rushes after the sound. Bucky’s huddled in a corner of the lab, digging frantically through the first aid kit. Even the metal hand is trembling as he grabs the bandages, almost dropping them.

There’s a bear–shaped lump beneath a mass of gauze and medical tape. Tony can just make out little metal ears under the bandages that Bucky’s winding around. Iron Bear.

“Bucky?” he asks softly.

He’s made sure to keep a good amount of space between them, but Bucky still flinches, slamming his shoulders back into the wall as he huddles in on himself, squeezing Iron Bear to his chest. “I’m sorry!”

“Sorry for what?” Tony asks, but Bucky’s crying too hard to speak. Probably shouldn’t have started with a question like that anyway. When Bucky’s upset like this, he’s sorry for everything, up to and including breathing other people’s air. “Is something wrong with Iron Bear? I can fix hi—”

“Stay away from me!” Bucky shouts. “I’ll hurt you!”

Tony takes a step back. He’s had that metal hand clamped around his throat before, and he has no desire to repeat it. Sure, he could summon a suit and haul Bucky off if it came to that, but he doesn’t want to. Who knows how badly it would shake the kid up?

“I’ll stay right here, Bucky, okay? I won’t come any closer if you don’t want me to. You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I already did!” Bucky insists. At least, that’s what Tony thinks he says. His face is pressed against the bear now. His hair is bedraggled and he’s still in his pajamas.

“Bucky,” Tony says. Why did the kid come here when he was panicking? Doesn’t he usually go to Steve for these things? Doesn’t Steve have a first aid kit on his floor? “I think you had a nightmare. Whatever you’re scared that you did—or that you’re going to do—it’s not real, all right? You haven’t hurt anybody, and you’re not going to. Promise.”

He probably shouldn’t have said that last part. Look, Tony’s not equipped to handle children at the best of times, let alone traumatized adults who are occasionally children. And definitely not at four in the morning.

Tony sits down. He should try not to loom over Bucky, at least. “Look,” he tries. “I’m okay. See? What you thought you did isn’t real, Bucky.”

“It felt real.” Bucky sniffles, wiping at his eyes.

“I know.” God, he does. “I have nightmares sometimes too, and it can take a while to realize that they’re just dreams. But I promise I’m fine, okay? JARVIS can even scan me if you want, to show you everything’s all right.”

“I hit you,” Bucky whispers, cringing in further with each word. “With Daddy’s shield. And I tried to _shoot you_ —”

“Shhh,” Tony tries, but that just sounds like he’s shushing a pet. “Uh, look. Do you want a shower? You might feel better if you’ve had a shower. Or I can make smoothies or tea—anything you want, kiddo.”

Bucky sniffs.

“Do you want a hug?”

“Iron Bear’s scared.”

Okay. If it makes the kid feel better to have this conversation by proxy through the Bearvengers, Tony can do that. “What’s he scared of?”

“That Bucky Bear and Captain Ameribear really will fight with him, and they’ll hate him, and nobody will be friends anymore.” Bucky’s voice wavers. His eyes are shining with tears again. “That all the Bearvengers will fight and no one will want to play anymore, and then bad bears will take over the world because there’s nobody to stop them.”

“Can I talk to Iron Bear?” Tony asks. He holds out his hand but doesn’t come any closer.

Slowly and shakily, Bucky scoots toward him until he can just take the bear from Bucky’s hands.

“Hey, Mini-Me,” Tony says, staring down at the bandaged lump of bear. “I know what it’s like to worry, and how bad it feels. And, um, I know that when you’re scared, even really silly things seem plausible. But just take a deep breath, okay? We’re a family. Try and focus on that. Families don’t stop loving each other because of one argument or fight. Hell, Pepper and I argue all the time. She’s even kicked me out of the penthouse before. But we always talk things out in the end, and we always try to do better. That’s, uh, that’s what families do. Or at least they should. We all love each other. Besides, Captain Ameribear and Bucky Bear could never get sick of you. Who else is going to build them cool stuff?”

He doesn’t know what else to say, so he gives the bear an awkward little hug.

Tony manages not to start when the shaking super soldier tries to join in. He wraps an arm around Bucky, hugging tight.

“So,” he says, after a least a minute has ticked by. “Smoothies?”

“Iron Bear wants mead,” Bucky mumbles, his breath tickling against Tony’s neck.

“Not while he’s on bed rest,” Tony says. “Doctor’s orders.”

“He says he feels better now.”

Tony smiles. “Of course he does.”


	86. Beary Concerned

Bucky Bear stares through his binoculars. There are definitely dangerous robots waiting behind Bucky’s dresser, and Bucky Bear isn’t about to let any of them sneak out and start attacking the villagers. The villagers are pairs of Bucky’s socks that have been placed around the floor. Captain Ameribear told Bucky Bear to stake out the robot base while he and Falcon Bear went to track down the bear who had programmed the robots.

Bucky Bear doesn’t intend to let a single robot slip by him.

Which is why the way Iron Bear’s poking at him is extra annoying right now.

“Quit,” he says, smacking Iron Bear’s paw away.

Bucky Bear doesn’t understand why _Iron Bear_ had to be the one to come with him. War Machine Bear or Hulk Bear would have been just as good at stopping robots, and not nearly as pokey.

“I can’t just turn off my sense of scientific inquiry,” Iron Bear whines.

Bucky Bear resolves to ignore him.

There’s a metal paw nudging at Bucky Bear’s ribs, making him squirm. “Bucky Bear,” Iron Bear says. “Hey, Bucky Bear?”

“ _What_?”

“How does your mask stay on?”

Bucky Bear looks away from the binoculars long enough to glare. “How did you ever run a company?”

“I’m serious!” Iron Bear insists. His faceplate lifts up and his eyes are all wide and pleading. “There aren’t any ties. Is it glued on?”

“It’s stitched.” Bucky Bear presses his face back to the binoculars.

“Stitched?”

Bucky Bear doesn’t answer.

“Doesn’t that hurt you?”

“Do your seams hurt you?” Bucky Bear snaps.

“That’s different.” Iron Bear then launches into a long explanation of why it’s different that Bucky Bear doesn’t bother to listen to. There’s no movement around the dresser. Yet. Bucky Bear won’t be lulled into a false sense of security. That’s just what the robots want.

He’s getting poked in the ribs again. “Bucky Bear—”

“I’m trying to keep the village safe!” Bucky Bear’s loud. Too loud. He might give away their location, but he can’t help himself. “Why did you even volunteer for the stakeout if you don’t care about helping people?”

“I do care,” Iron Bear says. “That’s why I fried the bots with an EMP ten minutes ago.”

Bucky Bear looks away from his binoculars. “What?”

“Hulk Bear took it to the base,” Tony explains. “It needed to be right there so that it wouldn’t disrupt the villagers’ stuff. The EMP would have wrecked my suit if I’d done it, because we needed to set it off as soon as we set it so it wouldn’t be noticed. But I could detonate it remotely, and I did.”

Bucky Bear stares. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

“Because you were busy brooding into your binoculars. And then because I was busy caring about you.”

Bucky Bear feels his ears twitch. “What?”

“I wanted to be sure your mask wasn’t hurting you or pulling on your fur,” Iron Bear says. “If it hurts, Bucky Bear, I can find a way to help. I can give you stuff that won’t make you too drowsy or weird-feeling to do your job. I bet Hulk Bear knows all kinds of things you could try.”

Bucky Bear doesn’t know what to say. He looks back into his binoculars because it’s the only thing he can think of to do. “It really doesn’t hurt,” he says.

“Good,” says Iron Bear. “But if anything does, let me know. Ameribear would kill me if he thought my hospitality was lacking.”

Bucky Bear doesn’t think Iron Bear’s really worried about Captain Ameribear at all.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and he lets Iron Bear smile and poke him without swatting him away this time.


	87. Jessica Jones

It’s unseasonably cold. Jessica zips up her jacket before sliding the camera back into her bag. She hadn’t even needed to get into the apartment across the street to get the shots; the husband she’s tailing had all but whipped it out before his mistress even unlocked the doors. All that’s left now is to develop the photos.

She starts down the fire escape. When she reaches the street, she starts to turn into the alley. The Manhattan Rye in her paper bag’s empty, and she saw a dumpster on the way up.

“You can redeem those for cash, you know,” Trish had said once, looking at the bottles that littered Jessica’s nightstand. But that would take effort.

This bottle doesn’t even make it to the dumpster. A man’s hand shoots out of the darkness, grabbing onto her arm, and the whiskey falls out of her hand, rolling on the sidewalk.

“Get the fuck off!” All she sees is purple. She can _smell_ Kilgrave’s cologne, practically taste him. There’s a whispering at the back of her mind, demanding that she smile. Come here. Cut her ears off—

_Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

Kilgrave’s dead. This is just some mugger. A pissed off client who couldn’t handle the truth. Or someone she’d investigated looking for payback.

She swings out, fist connecting with the man’s gut. He grunts, winded. But he doesn’t budge an inch.

Kilgrave was never that strong.

The man catches her next punch. Something’s wrong with his hand. It feels too solid under his glove, too—

“Stay away from the Commander!”

Jessica wrenches her hand free. Commander? The guy she’s investigating is an accountant. Great. Either this freak’s a complete lunatic, or she’s stumbled across a building that’s home to some sort of cult or mob or guerilla army. “Get off!”

The man tries to twist her arm behind her back, but Jessica pulls herself free. He has to be at least as strong as she is; how can his holds be so weak when he clearly knows how to take a hit? She can’t make out his face in the shadows, but he’s dressed similarly to her: Boots and a jacket with a hoodie underneath. He has the hood up, helping to hide his face. There are straps to a backpack over his shoulders, holding god knows what.

“Stay away from Commander Rumlow!” He dodges a punch, hands up in defense. He doesn’t try to grab her again.

Rumlow. The man prickles at Jessica’s mind. Something in the news, once. But she’d missed a lot of news thanks to that British bastard.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Jessica eyes the bottle on the sidewalk. She could smash it against the ground and slash at this guy if she needs to. Except his hand felt wrong. What if she can’t cut him? “I don’t give a shit about any commander.”

“You have a camera,” the man says. His voice is familiar. “Leave him alone. The way he drinks, he’ll be dead in a year anyway. Hurting him won’t give you anything back.”

“Get it through your head.” Jessica shifts back. Better to try and outrun this guy, if he’s holding back. Who knows what he’s capable of if she keeps challenging his delusions? “I don’t know your commander. I don’t want anything to do with him. I get paid to take pictures of guys cheating on their wives. That’s why I’m here.”

“The Commander’s not married,” the man says. His voice is small now, unsure.

“Because I’m not tailing him! It’s an apartment building, asshole. There’s got to be a hundred people in it!”

“But...” He shifts. The light catches his face. It’s faint, but Jessica’s seen those features in textbooks since she was a kid.

“Bucky Barnes?”

He’s allowed out of the Avengers’ Tower? Jessica thought house arrest was a condition of his freedom from an institution. Yeah, she’d followed the trial. The whole world had and besides, seeing how someone with superhuman abilities was treated in the legal system had been of personal interest.

Not that someone without Tony Stark’s lawyers would have gotten anywhere near that fair a shake.

Bucky Barnes. Here, worried about a commander. The trial. It all falls into place. “You’re meeting up with HYDRA members?” she blurts out.

Fuck. Now the Winter Soldier’s going to kill her for discovering that he was either never brainwashed or still is.

“It’s not like that!” He’s grabbed her again. She didn’t even see him _move._ “You can’t tell anybody! They’ll come here and hurt the Commander and that’s not fair, he’s not even in HYDRA anymore! He’s my friend! I know what he did was wrong but he can’t do it anymore and the court said he wasn’t guilty and he’s the only one who understands stuff that I can’t tell anyone else about! Please leave him alone!”

His hand is like a vise on her arm, but Barnes looks so small. It was one thing to hear his voice on those tapes they played in court, all childlike and traumatized. That had been bad enough. Now he looks the part too, even with the stubble on his face. His eyes are brimming with tears.

And yeah, it’s fucked that he’s meeting up with a former captor. But Jessica thinks of the look on Trish’s face before Jessica had moved out, staring at all the bottles in the bedroom. She remembers all the shit the defense said Pierce had made Barnes do. And Pierce hadn’t even had the power to force him with a word. He had to be broken into it.

“Bucky,” she says. It’s a name she’s heard and said in every history class growing up, but it feels strange on her tongue now, uncomfortably intimate. “Bucky, listen. I won’t tell anyone about your commander. I swear. I’m not here for him. Do you want to see the pictures I took?"

 _Nice going, Jess._ Offer to show the sexually abused man-child pictures of heavy petting. What could go wrong?

But Barnes doesn’t even seem to hear her, still sniffling. He hasn’t let go.

“Bucky,” she says sharply, and he looks up. Good. That means her chances of losing an arm to his potential psychotic break are reduced. Probably. “What street did you grow up on?”

“I—Water Street.” Barnes doesn’t have to search for the name, which is good. It’s only after she asked that she remembered the whole amnesiac issue. “In Dumbo.”

“What street intersected with it?” Jessica presses. “Closest to your house. Do you remember the name?”

“Jay Street.”

“And the next block over?”

Barnes bites his lip. His brow furrows and when he releases her arm, his words sound like a question. “Plymouth Street?”

“Okay. Listen, Bucky. I’m not here for Rumlow. Let me show you my camera.”

Jessica moves slowly, keeping both her hands in his line of sight as she takes the camera from her bag. She turns it on, and thankfully the latest picture is relatively innocent: just the couple making out against the doorframe.

“See that man?” she asks, holding the camera up to him. “His wife asked me to follow him. The woman he’s seeing lives in Rumlow’s building. That’s why I’m here.”

“Not for the Commander?”

“Not for the commander. I promise.” It feels patronizing to say it, but Barnes isn’t tearing up now. “I have the pictures I need. I’m not coming back anymore. And I won’t tell anyone about Rumlow. Or about you.”

“I hurt your arm,” Barnes says.

“I’m fine. Tougher than I look.”

“Do you want to hold my bear?”

“What?”

Barnes is sliding his backpack off his shoulder. He pulls an old teddy bear out of it. “This is Bucky Bear. He’s really nice. Do you want to hold him?”

“I should really get home.”

Jessica puts her camera back in the bag, but Barnes looks like he’s dying when she raises her head again. All over a stuffed bear. “I can hold him for a minute.”

The bear’s softer than it looks. Its fur is matted in a way that speaks of hugs rather than neglect. She thinks of Barnes wandering the streets alone to get here with just a teddy bear for company, and she has to hand the bear back. “Thank you. I really need to go.”

“I’m sorry,” Barnes says. She’s not sure if he’s apologizing for grabbing her before or just for his presence.

“It’s all right.” Jessica hesitates. “Can you get back home alone?”

“Yeah.” She expects Barnes to put the bear back in his backpack, but he just hugs it to his chest instead. “I do it all the time. I was going home when I saw you.”

Jessica nods. She starts down the sidewalk, stepping around the whiskey bottle. She’s halfway done the block when she stops, glancing over her shoulder. Barnes is heading the other way. He’s still hugging the bear. “Hey.”

He looks up.

There are a thousand things Jessica could say, and none of them will come out. That he didn’t deserve what Pierce did to him. That it’s not his fault. That she knows how awful it is to have someone awful forcing your actions.

“I’m sorry too,” she says finally, and then she keeps walking.


	88. Daredevil

“Uh,” Bucky says, standing over the masked man. “Hello?”

_Hello._ Brilliant. The army must have taught him better than that when they covered first aid in the field, but Bucky can’t remember. The man doesn’t stir.

“Can you hear me?” Bucky asks louder, kneeling down. Bucky Bear says that’s stupid and he’s opening himself up for an attack. That this has trap written all over it, and he never should have come here.

Bucky thinks that anyone lying bleeding, sprawled over a bunch of garbage bags around an alley dumpster, isn’t in any state to launch a surprise attack.

He didn’t realize he’d walked so far from home.

Steve and everyone else are gone on a mission. They’re really far away this time, all the way in Africa, and just knowing the physical distance makes the tower seem that much more lonely. Bucky’s spent a lot of time with Pepper and Lucky, but it still seemed like he could _hear_ how empty the house was, and he needed time out of it. So he’d walked, and walked and walked, and Pepper had been okay with it because Bucky had his phone and the bracelet on his ankle that told her where he was.

Then Bucky had heard moaning, and only now does he realize where he’s wandered, because that’s the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Bucky’s followed the news about this man. Everyone at the tower has. Bucky was worried that he might attack Rumlow, but it seems like he only operates in Hell’s Kitchen. And he doesn’t kill.

But it looks like someone’s tried to kill him.

Bucky scans the rooftops for any assailants, listens for breathing inside of or behind the dumpsters. They’re alone. Not even any rustling from rats.

“Can you hear me?” Bucky repeats. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help.”

The Devil has body armor all over. It’s not like Steve’s, but it seems sturdy enough. What could have hurt him so badly through all that?

Bucky Bear isn’t impressed with the armor. He says it clearly can’t be any good if the man got hurt like this, and anyway, the helmet is stupid. The lenses make him look like a beetle.

The Devil isn’t responding. With severe injuries, there’s something called a golden hour. Bucky doesn’t remember where he learned that. All he knows is that if someone really hurt doesn’t get help within that first hour after the injury, then the chances that they’ll be okay go down fast. How much of his hour did the Devil lose before Bucky showed up?

Bucky takes out his phone. He can’t call the paramedics; they’d call the police, and the police would arrest the Devil. He could take off his mask and armor and then call, but he can’t risk moving the man around that much. What if something’s wrong with his spine? He’ll call Pepper. Pepper will know what to do, how to—

The Devil grabs Bucky’s wrist.

Bucky Bear shouts that it _is_ a trap, that he’s faking and Bucky had better snap his arm, defend himself. But the alley reeks of blood, and the hand at Bucky’s wrist is weak, scrambling for a hold. Besides, it’s his metal arm. Bucky could easily wrench it free even if the Devil had a firm grasp.

“No police,” the man gasps. His voice is wet, like there’s blood in his mouth. Or his throat.

“I won’t call the police,” Bucky says. “But you’re hurt. You need help.”

The Devil stops struggling, his fingers pushing weakly on Bucky’s arm. “Bucky Barnes,” he says, something like wonder in his wet voice.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky insists, hoping that the Devil’s coherent enough to understand. “I don’t care who you are, and I don’t want to get you in trouble. But you really need a doctor. Is there anyone you can trust? If there’s not, I have to find someone.”

“There’s—” The Devil cuts himself off. At first Bucky thinks it’s from pain, or maybe he’s fallen unconscious, but no. His mouth is working; he’s struggling with something.

“I don’t need to know who it is,” Bucky says. “Just how I can find them. Or get them to come to you.” Because he’s not sure at all if it’s safe for the Devil to move right now. And what’s Bucky supposed to do if the person can’t come here? Lay down some garbage bags in the back of an Uber to keep from getting blood on the seats?

“I have to go there,” the Devil says finally. “Can’t bring anyone here—too much risk if they’re seen—”

Bucky isn’t concerned with risk. He lives with the Avengers. He’s still the Winter Soldier, at least sometimes. “Where are you hurt?” he asks. “Can I move you, or is something wrong with your back?”

“It’s not my back.” The Devil’s free hand gestures to the side he’s lying on, kind of curled up around it. Just pointing like that makes him hiss in pain.

There’s a glisten of blood on the garbage bags. He’s either been stabbed or shot. The blood coming out of his mouth isn’t foamy like blood from the lungs, or dark like blood from the gut. Hopefully, he just got punched and his teeth cut his lip or something.

Bucky Bear says those can’t be the only injuries. But if the Devil’s still awake, he must have a high tolerance for pain. Which means he’s been hurt before. Which means Bucky’s going to trust his judgment.

There’s an empty shopping bag rolling around in the breeze at the mouth of the alley. Bucky stands up, grabs it, and comes back.

“I’m going to press this against where you’re hurt,” he says. “And then I want you to hold it there. I can pick you up. Tell me where to take you, and I’ll carry you there.” The Devil hesitates, and he adds, “You don’t have to lead me right to the door. Not if this person can come get you when you’re close. Just tell me where to take you, okay?”

The silence is so long that only the man’s labored breathing lets Bucky know he hasn’t fainted. “All right.”

Bucky Bear has to go into Bucky’s backpack so he won’t get blood all over him, which he doesn’t like at all. Bucky just tells him that sometimes sacrifices are necessary. The Devil groans when Bucky puts the shopping bag over the wound. And again when Bucky picks him up, breathing rapidly like he’s struggling to stay conscious.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I’ll walk fast.” As fast as he can without jostling the man and making things worse.

“I’ll try not to bleed on you.” It comes out as a grunt, but at least he can still speak.

“Thanks.”

For a few minutes, the Devil only speaks to give directions. Then he says abruptly, like’s it’s just occurred to him, “If people see you with me—if they recognize you—”

“It’s not illegal to be a good Samaritan,” Bucky says. “Especially not when I have Tony Stark’s PR team. And anyway, I don’t care. I didn’t get to choose who I helped for a long time. I’m choosing to help you.”

“I followed your trial,” the Devil says.

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t want to think about that now. He can’t stand to have someone pitying him _now_ , can’t afford to become a child when he’s helping someone seriously injured.

“I’m sorry,” the Devil says. Bucky waits for more. For ‘it must have been so awful,’ or ‘I’m so happy you’re safe now,’ or ‘no one should have to go through that.’ Even though they’re all true things, sometimes he can’t stand to hear them.

But that’s all the Devil says.

“Thank you,” Bucky manages, throat dry.

“Thank you,” is the reply. “For letting me bleed on you.”

That’s going to be fun to explain to Pepper, coming home with blood on his shirt and jeans. Oh well. “Guess I should have worn red,” Bucky mutters. “Must make your suit easier to clean.”

“It used to be black.”

“Blue’s harder to see in the dark.” And Bucky wonders, suddenly, if that’s why his coat had been blue in the war.

“Blue doesn’t send the right message. It’s a symbol.”

“Maybe you oughta carry a pitchfork,” Bucky says. Though a shield would be better, judging by the blood he can feel seeping into his clothes.

The Devil laughs, although he stops almost immediately with a gasp of pain that’s nearly a yelp.

“Sorry,” Bucky says.

“Don’t be.”


	89. Taking Out the Trash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an interlude to celebrate [WhatEvenAmI](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)'s birthday!

“This is a bad idea,” Bear Widow said.  


“Captain Ameribear’s gonna frown so hard when he comes back,” Hawkbear added.  


“Even I think we shouldn’t do this,” Iron Bear said.  “And I love doing stupid things.”  


Bucky Bear ignored all of them, readying his flamethrower.  It was Lucky’s birthday, and they couldn’t have a party with pizza boxes and coffee grounds all over the floor.  Clint had promised those things would be gone in time for the party.  He’d _promised._

And Bucky had really wanted this birthday party to work.  He had Bucky Bear and Lucky sign a ceasefire to make sure there would be no chewing or licking or sabotages during the party.  Bucky Bear did not sit through a three hour contract negotiation just to show up to a room too dirty for Bucky to even set down the special dog cake Natasha bought.

So Bucky Bear had retrieved his flamethrower.  And if Clint was mad about the property damage, then Clint would just have to learn to be less messy.

“Clear the area,” Bucky Bear ordered, aiming the nozzle.  


“Aw, Bucky Bear, no,” Hawkbear said.  


Bucky Bear pulled the trigger.

There was a weak spray of sparks, and nothing else.

“I cut the power line!” Iron Bear announced, hovering over Bucky Bear with his stupid rocket boots.  “No need to hold your applause, friends!”  


Bucky Bear decided to tackle Iron Bear and use his boots to burn everything instead, but he didn’t get the chance.  Captain Ameribear chose that moment to walk back in, his paws full of trash bags and cleaning supplies.

“Don’t just stand around!” he said.  “Bearvengers, assemble!  We’ve got to get this place ready for Lucky.”  


Bucky Bear was assigned to help Iron Bear with the sweeping, but after Bear Widow muttered something to Captain Ameribear, his task was changed.  Captain Ameribear declared that Bucky Bear’s job was to glare at the windows until the smudges on them withered away.

Captain Ameribear said Bucky Bear was doing a very good job with that, and so Bucky Bear wasn’t murderously angry anymore when the party actually started.


	90. The Deepest Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was inspired by this ask: "If you're still taking interlude requests, then could you write one with Steve and Snowflake that will break everyone's heart? I don't know why but I love to have my heart broken by this universe and I wanted to see what you come up with given a pretty general prompt."
> 
> This interlude portrays an incident mentioned in _Blaming the Gun,_ the aftermath of Bucky's attempt to cut off his arm early on at the tower.

Steve waits until the blankness fades from Bucky’s eyes, replaced with wet and darting worry, before he speaks.

It’s not fair, making Bucky answer these questions when he’s five.  It’s not fair that he acts five at all, that Pierce forced him to beg for affection, to demean himself, to confuse such humiliating, violating abuse with love.  It’s not fair that HYDRA seared the memories out of his brain, forced him to kill for their cause and shoved him into the ice when they were sick of him like a discarded toy—

“Daddy?”  Bucky’s voice is small.

Steve shuffles back on the couch to give Bucky space, instantly regretting it.  He doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s flinching from him.  He can’t stop the bile that churns in his stomach every time he hears “daddy” from his friend’s lips, but there’s no sense in letting Bucky know that.  He can’t help it.  Any of it.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve answers.  He looks at the bandaging where Bucky’s skin melds into metal.  The bleeding’s stopped now.  Steve’s nails are digging into his palms, and he forces his hands to relax.  “Can we talk about what happened?”

Bucky stiffens, his gaze darting from Steve to Tony and Pepper, then back again.  His shoulders draw up like he expects to be hit, and Steve’s heart sinks.

He should have asked when Bucky was still the Soldier, even if asking set him off again.  This isn’t fair to Bucky.  But seeing him struggle to maintain that blank, conditioned stoicism as he talked about why he tried to saw off his own arm—Steve couldn’t take it.  So now he’s making Bucky endure this.

He’s a disgusting coward for it.

“It’s okay, James,” Pepper says immediately.  Offering comfort when Steve’s lost in his own head.  Just like she and Tony had been the first on the scene to stop Bucky from mutilating himself.  “No one’s angry.”

“You’re not in trouble,” Steve adds.  He reaches out to take Bucky’s hand and then stops himself.  What if touching him sparks whatever feelings made him want to hurt himself all over again?  What if it was disgust and shame over the touches from his last “daddy” that drove him to this?  “I just want to help you, Buck.  We all do.  That’s why we need to understand why you wanted to cut off your arm."

Bucky stares, brow furrowing.  He glances down, first at his flesh hand and then at the metal one.  “I—I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you’re not sure.”  Steve almost chokes on the words.  Nothing, absolutely nothing about this is okay.  “But what were you thinking in the lab?  Or feeling?  There aren’t any wrong answers, Bucky.”

“In…the lab,” Bucky repeats slowly.  He’s twisting his neck to stare at the bandaging on his shoulder now, his eyes growing as wide as they’d been when he was slicing at the scar tissue.

Steve braces himself in case Bucky bolts.  “No one’s mad—”

Bucky bursts into tears.

And Steve, stiff and useless, just _sits_ there at a loss for words.  “Bucky,” he tries.  “Bucky, we don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t—”

“I don’t!” The words are muffled by Bucky’s hands, pressed against his face, but still loud enough to make Steve flinch.  “I’m sorry!  I don’t know!”  


“That’s okay!”  Despite himself, Steve pulls Bucky into a hug.  He can feel his friend’s heart hammering, body almost feverishly warm with stress.  “Bucky, it can wait until later.”  


“I won’t know later!” Bucky’s sobbing, practically hiccuping the words through his tears.  “I won’t touch knives again I promise I’m sorry I know it’s bad please don’t get rid of me!  I don’t know why I was bad!  I can’t remember!  I can’t remember Daddy I’m sorry I’m broken I’m so sorry!”  


And Steve’s as cold as he was when he woke up from the ice.


	91. And the Little One Said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Whenever you're doing em again, it'd be super interesting to read an interlude that's just "There Were Two in the Bed" from Pepper's perspective...or just the moment/aftermath of Bucky calling her Mommy. i feel like she'd be really moved by it but also feel sort of freaked by the weight of responsibility and all that."

“Night, Mommy,” Bucky mumbles, and Pepper’s breath catches in her throat.  


He’s out like a light right after, but Pepper just stays there, propped up against her pillow, staring down at him until her arm falls asleep that way and she has to shift to lie down herself.

It might be nothing.  It probably _is_ nothing, just a holdover from old memories of his mother.  It doesn’t mean that Bucky thinks of her that way, that she’s somehow on par with Steve in his life.  No one can reach Steve’s level, not with the history they’ve shared and the role he’s taken now.

But maybe it wasn’t just fatigue and old memories.  Maybe she has become important to him, in a more maternal way than his interactions with Natasha provide.

It’s an overwhelming thought.  Her heart feels full and heavy, mind racing.

Pepper’s never really wanted children, not since she was old enough to realize that motherhood wasn’t something every woman _had_ to do.  She had no real dislike for children, but she figured “apathy” should not be the driving emotion behind childbearing.  Anyway, she was happy with her life as it was, and if she tried to raise a child while handling both the company and Tony, everything would end up stretched thin and half-assed.

Bucky…Bucky’s different.  Bucky’s an adult most times, not a small, dependent kid she can screw up for life.

Unless she does the wrong thing and ends up adding to his already overwhelming guilt and emotional issues.  And possibly drives him to a nervous breakdown or catatonia.

Somewhere in the penthouse, a clock is ticking.  She can hear the seconds passing by as she stares up at the ceiling, fingers wound up in the sheets.  What is she supposed to say when Bucky wakes up?  What will Tony say when he finds out?

Or Steve?

It must be an hour later when fatigue starts to win out over worry, and Pepper lets her eyes slide shut.

She’s not sure if she’s dreaming or if her subconscious is just trying to quiet her worries when she hears Steve’s voice in her head.   _He trusts you enough to call you family, Pepper.  You should be proud_.

She tries to be, but she’s completely asleep before her emotions have time to settle into any one specific thing.


	92. Falling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by this ask: "Could you write an interlude about Bucky waking up in the middle of the night and realizing that Bucky Bear or Captain Ameribear has fallen off the bed? I just think that would be really cute because who hasn't had that happen."

Bucky pulls the pillow over his head to hide from the sun.  Slowly, one hand slides out from underneath, fingers inching along the mattress in search of Bucky Bear.  His bear shouldn’t have to wake up yet either.

His hand reaches the edge of the bed without ever brushing up against bear fur.  Bucky frowns under the pillow, swiping his hand across the bedspread in wider arcs now, searching.

Nothing.

Bucky pulls the pillow off of his head and bolts upright, wincing against the light from the window.

His heart picks up as he surveys the bearless bed.  A flash of blue catches the corner of his eye, and he whirls to find Bucky Bear on the floor at the side of the bed.

Alone.  On the cold wooden floor.

He fell off the bed.

Bucky snatches him up, nearly falling off the bed himself, and hugs him tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “I’ll never, ever let it happen again.”  


*

“What are you working on?” Daddy asks.  


“It’s a bear tether,” Bucky explains.  It had been a bracelet, a hair tie, and a shoelace, but now it’s a tether.  “I can put this on my wrist at bedtime, and that end goes on Bucky Bear’s ankle, and this way he’ll never fall off.”  


Daddy nods, though he doesn’t look like he really gets it.  “And what’s that?” he asks, tilting his head toward the towel suspended at the side of the bed.

“That’s a bear net, in case the tether breaks.  So Bucky Bear can’t fall no matter what.”  


This time when Daddy nods, Bucky can tell he understands.  Especially when he gives Bucky Bear a kiss on his nose right after, and promises him that he’ll never fall again.


	93. Special Snowflake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This interlude was inspired by the current political climate, and also this ask:
> 
> "If you are still that prompts from apshds, I have a weird request. I really want someone to (snarkily or not)call Bucky a “special snowflake”, as was so popular on LJ etc a few years (God, a decade?) ago. 
> 
> I just wanna see his reaction. Is he pleased? Is he confused?"

 Bucky’s learned to ignore them.

He’s had to deal with assholes ever since he started making public appearances at events for the foundation.  And really, walking in and out of the courthouse every day of the trial had helped to desensitize him to that.  These protesters are no different than those people had been: Clutching signs calling him a traitor, shouting insults he tries to ignore, and covered in red, white, and blue to mark themselves as _real_ patriots.  Not like him.

He’s used to it, headed into charity events or radio stations.

“How much did Iron Man pay to buy off the jury?”  


But this is _Crystal’s_ coffee shop, damn it.

“Better dead than red!”  


How did they even find him here?

“We know you’re guilty!” one of them shouts.  They’re outside the doors, but but it doesn’t block the noise.  It looks like the ringleader’s yelling now.  He’s wearing a suit, for some reason.  There’s a frog pin or something on the lapel.  Weird.  Usually they have flags or military ribbons or something.  


Bucky crumples the coffee cup in his metal hand before he tosses it in the garbage.  He shoulders open the door and walks out, not giving them the satisfaction of even a glance.

“No one’s buying your sob story!”  The guy’s still shouting.  Sounds like they’re following him.  “Crying rape doesn’t fix what you did!  We’ll be here to remind you whenever you step out of your safe space, you special little snowflake—”

Buck reacts on instinct more than anything else.  He whirls, fist connecting, seeing Pierce’s nose go bloody under his knuckles, not the obnoxious little pissant.  The guy falls, sprawling across the pavement and howling in pain, and it’s only then that Bucky really sees him.  


The others stare at him, gaping, and Bucky’s hands are shaking as he digs through his jacket.

“Here,” he says.  Tony makes him carry cards when he leaves the tower: IF FOUND RETURN TO IRON MAN.  Bucky had almost decked him for that, but they do help if he’s having a panic attack and can’t steady his hand enough to use his own phone.  There’s a number on the cards.  “I—I’m sorry.  Call that.  I’ll pay for your medical costs.  I’m sorry.”

They flinch away, so he drops the card on the sidewalk.  Then he runs.

*

It’s not until that night that Bucky learns the whole thing was videoed by a patron in the coffee shop with a smartphone.  The footage has gone viral.  Apparently the guy he punched is an infamous “alt right” activist who spends a lot of time in New York decrying the Avengers, diversity centers, and political correctness, among other things.  


“BUCKY BARNES REDISCOVERS HIS NAZI-PUNCHING ROOTS” is the first headline he reads.  


Today is a good day after all.    


**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to visit my Tumblr and offer more ideas for these short stories, you can find it [here.](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [More common in children aged 3 to 12.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083331) by [VoiceOfNurse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoiceOfNurse/pseuds/VoiceOfNurse)
  * [Good Night, Sleep Tight (Don't Let the Plot Bunnies Bite)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4195374) by [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)
  * [A Laugh Upon Her Lips](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453220) by [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)
  * [What I Could Be](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221409) by [VoiceOfNurse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoiceOfNurse/pseuds/VoiceOfNurse)
  * [Depression is Three Times More Common](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578348) by [VoiceOfNurse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoiceOfNurse/pseuds/VoiceOfNurse)
  * [A Little Like Brothers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7378783) by Anonymous 




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